


Boomerang

by Nuanta



Series: Boomerang [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Prison Sex, Those Who Slither in the Dark, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta
Summary: There was a time when Hubert firmly believed he would open for no one. Slowly, against all his icy intentions, he let down his walls—only to have his heart viciously ripped from his rib cage and crushed beneath a steel-toed boot.He would not make the same mistake twice.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Boomerang [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032738
Comments: 154
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's angsty longfic time! It's an idea that's been in my head for a long time, and by far the darkest thing I've ever attempted. That said, I'm going to update the tags as needed, but for now you have the gist of it. If there are specific content/trigger warnings for certain chapters, I will include them in the chapter notes, so definitely please watch out for that. This is going to go in a lot of unhealthy places before things get better. 
> 
> For now...buckle up, I hope you enjoy the ride!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unanticipated reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific content warnings will always be in the beginning notes. Nothing to note for this opening chapter, though!

Hubert woke with a heavy weight over his chest, blurring the boundary between waking and dreaming. He lifted his arm and heaved a long breath as the blanket was pushed off his lungs, which expanded gratefully upon relief from that pressure. Folded it over to free the rest of him from its constricts, stretched, swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

The line between his dreams and reality was always tenuous, had been for several years now. Everything took place in his room, in his bed. That was why the moment he’d opened his eyes was always the haziest, the colorful mirage giving way with bleary blinks to the weighted blanket that pinned him where he laid, grounded him.

In his dreams, it was a body.

Hubert rubbed his eyes and made his way through the connecting door to his study so that he could begin his morning rituals. This mainly revolved around the necessary steps to prepare coffee, because five arduous years of war had taken enough of a toll on him that its consumption was less leisure and very much mandatory. Passably functional might have been a look he’d accepted in the past, but Edelgard, ever perceptive to nearly all his plights, was on to him, so this was as much for her benefit as it was his own. Petty disruptions would not aid her in such a critical stage, when the tide had finally tilted in their favor. No, better to guarantee her focus did not wane for the likes of him.

Besides, he enjoyed his morning coffee, perfunctory as it was. The rich fragrance and bitter taste cleared his mind, washed away the last lingering fragments of the night, liberated his throat from suffocation in fiery hair.

And until the world gradually came back into focus with the sharp, acrid sting settling on his tongue, he was just going through the motions.

Fortunately, Hubert was an early riser, so the lost minutes every morning were not such an impediment as they could have been. The waiting period even served as a window for getting dressed. And once the brew was ready, he could pour himself a cup, sit at his desk, and sharpen his wits.

He inhaled through his nose, letting the aroma fill his nostrils until they itched. Swallowed down the first gulp of that soothing burn, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Much better.

Once awareness had properly seeped into his brain, he permitted himself a quick perusal of the book he’d left open on the desk since yesterday—an encyclopedia of dangerous plants Bernadetta had gifted him at the end of last year that he finally began working his way through once he’d realized it was just sitting there collecting dust—just enough to read up on one particularly carnivorous specimen. One plant a day: that was the latest addition to his morning ritual. It used up just the right amount of time for him to finish his coffee and for its effects to finally take hold. And with the vast number of species to sift through, it would keep his mornings on track for quite a while.

This time, he placed his little violet ribbon between the pages, marking tomorrow’s plant—of the poisonous variety—and closed the book. His gaze shifted, hesitated for a moment on the knob to his desk drawer, but he shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. It was almost time for him to receive his morning reports.

He chose to take the walk across the monastery to his office rather than warp. Dorothea had been rather adamant that he should augment his fresh air intake— _you spend all of your time in your office, or the musty dungeons, or that noxious lab of yours, Hubie, please go outside once in a while_ —and if that was all she’d asked of him in return for allowing him to plant moles in the newly revitalized Mittelfrank Opera Company, well, he figured he would never reach a more beneficial bargain than this.

Also, the crisp air would do him good, and his presence meant that any soldiers potentially slacking off scrambled back to attention and duty, which then ensured that Hubert did not have to delve into his extensive vocabulary of threats this early in the day. An improvement for everyone.

His stroll took him past the training grounds, where Caspar and Petra were already sparring, joined by their professor as well. Byleth’s return had invigorated their routine, as it had for Edelgard’s, as it had for the entire Imperial Army. With their return came significant progress in the five-year stalemate. With their return came that pivotal conquest at Myrddin, drawing them ever closer to their goal of toppling the Alliance.

It also meant the dungeons of Garreg Mach had seen an increased capacity as of late, which meant longer hours for Hubert—but the thrill of the new avenues to victory opening up under his knife was sustenance enough on its own.

At least, for the most part.

He’d avoided thinking about it for the better part of three weeks, but anticipation of today’s initial reports thrummed under his skin like a hoard of crawling insects, ants carrying the beaten down morsels of his memories through every extremity so that his body would not forget.

Hubert exhaled through his teeth, cast a quick disarming spell, and entered his office to find a stack of papers on the desk patiently awaiting his arrival.

None of his aides would have passed by with so many documents already; these must have been from last night, while Hubert was working with Linhardt in Hanneman’s old laboratory for crest research. Only his most trusted aides knew how to neutralize the traps set to ward off unwanted visitors, but even they couldn’t access his most confidential items, magically locked away in drawers and bookshelves that only he knew the correct counter spells for. Efficiency while maintaining secrecy as needed, which was becoming all the more vital these days.

He wasn’t due to receive his morning reports for another twenty or so minutes, so he took a seat and pulled the stack of papers closer to begin sifting through them.

A summary of the latest movements from Derdriu, a supplies requisition from Cornelia at Arianrhod pending his approval and signature, a research request from Lord Arundel that Hubert pointedly disregarded and set aside to be later incinerated with all other disposable letters, a status report from Enbarr… Having tasks immediately in front of him was a surefire way to boost Hubert’s productivity, and so he managed to get through a dozen papers before the customary knock on his open door sounded.

“Come in,” Hubert called.

His aide, Ashlen, entered and closed the door behind her. She wore her typical robes of black and the beaked mask that all Hubert’s carefully vetted employees wore. Whether in the office or out in the open, the uniform was a constant, and it helped safeguard their identities with Thales and his ilk breathing down their necks. Even so, Hubert recognized her gait, the pressure and rhythm with which she knocked. He would never mix them up.

“Your morning report, sir.”

Hubert sat back in his chair, cast his usual silence spell to surround them and prevent eavesdropping, and breathed. “Proceed.”

Ashlen drew herself to full height, which was not much—she and Bernadetta had been of the same until Bernadetta hit a final growth spurt during the war—and began.

“The final preparations are being made to invade Derdriu,” she said smoothly. “Given von Riegan’s movements, we are quite certain at this point that he is bolstering his defenses to make a final stand there. The voyage should therefore be smooth, and we will be set to march in two weeks’ time.”

Hubert hummed his assent. “As expected. Good. Any news from Lord Arundel or that wretched Cornelia?”

Ashlen nodded. “Unfortunately, sir. It should be in one of your documents, but Lord Arundel has requested a meeting with you on the morrow.”

He rolled his eyes. “Very well. Inform him that I’ll meet with him for no more than half an hour in the afternoon.”

“Of course, sir.”

She paused, then, and Hubert’s focus instantly sharpened to a razor wire. His hands grew sticky with sweat within his gloves and begged for air. His pulse thudded rabbit-quick in his ears, his throat, his chest.

“We began the prisoner’s interrogations late last night,” said Ashlen.

Hubert grunted, an indication for her to continue. He couldn’t trust himself to speak; it was as though a thick sludge was dripping down his airways, his tongue too numb to form words.

“As intended, he had lost track of time. He did not know where he was, but he was sharp enough to deduce who his interrogators answered to.”

It was as if someone had taken a syringe of ice and plunged it straight into his neck, freezing his nerves all the way down to his spine, and Hubert’s breath caught.

“He was uncooperative, and instead kept insisting you visit him personally.”

“Ah,” he said, unbidden and soft.

Ashlen’s stance did not waver, nor did her confidence. “As previously planned, we will stagger the length of time between visits and keep him in darkness otherwise, to further distort his sense of time,” she said, matter-of-fact. “If we cannot reach him psychologically, we will move on to physical persuasion. Rest assured we will get him to talk through any means necessary. You will not need to involve yourself.”

Hubert said, “I will see him.”

His aide twitched, just as startled as Hubert himself.

He had not meant to say those words.

He could not take them back now. He could not show weakness here.

“I will see him,” he repeated, more confirmation to himself than to Ashlen. “I’ll visit the dungeons tonight. If it can ease the progression of the interrogation, then I will indulge him just this once, so we can see if he is at all a man of his word.” Vile boiled up in his lungs, astringent and threatening to spill, and he forced it down with a hard swallow. “I will provide you with the results tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Ashlen said.

He brushed his bangs out of his eye, where it had begun to prickle, wiping residual sweat off his brow in the process. “Is that all for now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hidden behind his hand, he closed his eyes. “Very well. Dismissed.”

The door opened and footsteps disappeared down the hall, leaving Hubert alone in his office with his jumbled thoughts and memories, and his useless attempts at deep, shuddering breaths.

~o~

The rest of the day passed by in a caffeine-fueled whirlwind of dizzying activity. Hubert dove into the remains of his stack of reports, enough to tide him through lunch up to his midday war council meeting. He relayed the information his spies had provided out of Derdriu, and they solidified their marching plans. It was a good, prolific meeting, and lasted just long enough that there was a fresh stack of papers on his desk when he returned to his office afterwards, replacing the pile of signed forms for his aide to pick up and deliver.

It was almost enough to make him forget the encounter looming over the horizon, descending upon him as surely as the sun setting.

The inevitability of it prickled beneath his skin, intensifying with every inch the night sky engulfed over the day. Only once there was no more light to speak of through his office window did he finally lay down his quill.

His fingers were trembling.

Damn it all.

Hubert stood abruptly, his chair clattering backwards from the force, and slammed his shaking hands against the desk. He hissed at the impact, but the new throb it produced in his hands was a welcome distraction.

Business. That was the only reason for this. It was no different than any other aspect of his work. 

He might as well get it over with so he could resume his more important dealings—such as reinforcing the Derdriu invasion plans and winning Edelgard’s war. This was but a tiny pebble skittering down the base of a mountain.

He rearranged his stack of signed reports neatly on the edge of the desk for his aide to collect and marched out of the office before he had a chance to second-guess again, and made his way down into the monastery's abyssal dungeons.

The cold stone hallways were fitted with torches all across the maze-like walls, branching and twisting into a mess of shadow and flame that Hubert had painstakingly mapped to muscle memory, seared into the back of his mind. He had memorized every inch of this layout, every arrangement of prisoners within these dungeons along with the peculiarities of each individual’s treatment. They were all under his jurisdiction, after all, but he remained updated even on the ones he’d delegated to his people.

Usually, he’d entrust them with the small fry and see to the most crucial and influential captives himself. This one, however, he’d been forced to hand over to his assistant on Lady Edelgard’s orders. He’d begrudgingly acquiesced at the time, but now—with each step that brought him closer, with each quickening pulse of his heartbeat, unbearably human—he wholly conceded the rationale in her decision.

He reached the door to the final hallway to his destination, where one of his men stood guard. They nodded wordlessly to each other, Ashlen having no doubt forwarded his plans earlier that day. The guard pulled out a key from the chain around his neck, tucked under his breastplate, and deftly unlocked it. Hubert entered with another incline of his head in thanks, and as the door closed swiftly behind him he was submerged into pure, stifling darkness.

Navigating through the pitch black—no use in announcing himself just yet—was as familiar as slicing a dagger through a carotid artery. Hubert knew the exact number of steps needed to take him to the specific cell, the precise angle at which to turn to face the bars. He did so quietly, nimbly—at least, he tried to, if his blasted drumroll of a pulse would only cease its relentless cadence of betrayal—

A bead of sweat trickled down his brow, infuriatingly close to the corner of his eye. A chill took hold of his spine, but he ignored it, squaring his shoulders and forcing himself to maintain a stiff posture.

He opened his clammy palm in front of him, and cast fire.

A sharp intake of breath at the sudden brightness. A body, shifting and shying away. An arm held over a face. A tumble of long hair as vivid as the flame before him.

Hubert gritted his teeth and willed himself to breathe.

A beat, and then the arm lowered. Lashes fluttered, and slowly, amber eyes lifted to meet his. Hubert could pinpoint the moment focus returned to them, when they widened slightly in recognition and then narrowed in kind.

A low exhale. More air than voice: “Hubert.”

Hubert swallowed. “Hello, Ferdinand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me on twitter [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poorly planned conversation.

His hair had gotten so long.

He’d been in the initial stages of growing it out, back then, but it was nothing like this. Then, it had curled behind his ears in languid waves, ends flirting soft against his neck, not quite at his shoulders.

Now, it was mottled, ends tangled and split—but it reached well past his collarbone, maybe even midway to his waist. It was difficult to tell, with his back to the wall.

Dusted and dirtied and drained of its luster, it was still impossibly bright to Hubert’s eyes.

The rest of his appearance, however, was muted and dulled. He was dressed in simple browns, the threads tested and worn at the knees and elbows. His ankles were shackled, a ball and chain trailing to the back right corner of the cell, but his wrists were not. A play at mercy, though it had evidently proved ineffective thus far. Soot smeared his cheeks, likely from attempts at sleeping on the floor. There were dark circles under his golden eyes that twisted an unfamiliar thrill in Hubert’s gut.

Those very eyes blinked slowly, glazing over in the way Hubert knew meant that he was processing. When the full force of their stare met Hubert once more, however, Hubert drew a breath.

Ferdinand said, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Hubert bristled. “Well, this is far from the first time you’ve been wrong about something, and it won’t be the last.”

Anger flashed across Ferdinand’s face, contorting his features and sparking behind his eyes. It receded just as quickly into a subdued calm, his hunched shoulders loosening slightly.

“Ah,” Hubert smirked, “so you’ve finally learned to accept defeat.”

This time, Ferdinand did not maintain his composure. “I have done no such thing,” he snarled, and oh, it had been such a long time since he’d directed his fury at Hubert, since Hubert had borne the brunt of that burning passion face to face. His dreams could never quite recreate it: the way it simply exploded from him, the way he drew himself up, the way his upper lip curled, the way his eyes darkened and blazed to life all at once. “Whatever you want from me, you are not going to get it.”

Any reservations Hubert had harbored over coming here tonight incinerated in an instant, replaced instead with a long-forgotten boiling in his blood, the call to animosity, the gravitational instinct to lash out with brutal words.

“Yes, you made that quite clear years ago,” he snapped.

Ferdinand recoiled as if he’d been slapped. If Hubert hadn’t been so fixated on striking the knife, he might have been surprised at how easy this was—Ferdinand never made anything easy.

“That is not what I meant,” Ferdinand whispered.

Hubert rolled his shoulders back, tilting his chin so that he could look down on Ferdinand with perfect disdain. Pitched his voice low, cool, mocking. “What ever did you mean, then, _sunlight_?” A pained noise escaped Ferdinand, and rich satisfaction coiled beneath Hubert’s ribs. “What did you intend when you refused to answer the simple questions of my _very_ cooperative staff? A chat for old times’ sake, hmm? Perhaps the naïve hope to negotiate, as if your treacherous ways would ever be tolerated here?” His heartbeat was in his ears, now. Ferdinand had blanched, fueling the bitter resentment pulsing through Hubert’s veins. His cheeks stretched uncomfortably wide as he grinned in spite of himself. “Or, most likely, a chance to spit on my name one last time, for all the good it will do you, knowing it will seal your miserable fate? A pity you left us so soon. Had you been around to see my interrogations bear fruit, you might have learned some self-preservation.

“But don’t worry,” he added, the venom spilling from his lips growing more concentrated with each sting. “You’ll receive the highest quality treatments. Only the best for a noble, of course.” And there, the final dagger, the irresistible prize: “Just like your father.”

He stopped there, breathing hard. One hand was clenched into a fist at his side, something warm and wet trickling against his palm where his nails had dug in; the other barely kept his magical flame aloft as it cast light and shadow alike across Ferdinand’s stricken face.

Ferdinand’s mouth worked, but if any sound escaped Hubert could not hear it. He could barely hear his own thoughts over his thundering pulse, over the pure, unadulterated rage flowing through him. But as his chest rose and fell, the swell of emotions crested, retreated, and rational thought filtered back through.

He’d indubitably spoken out of turn, revealed too much. However, presenting himself as vulnerable might have been the necessary trick, judging by Ferdinand’s reactions. He could fix this, use it to his advantage still.

It would be all the more rewarding to make Ferdinand von Aegir regret.

He watched as Ferdinand’s eyes lifted to the ceiling, as his lashes fluttered shut, as his throat rippled with a swallow. Then his head lowered. When he next opened his eyes, they had steeled over, and Hubert knew as surely as the dread inching down his spine that Ferdinand had absorbed the blows as he always had: with an unflinching readiness to prove him wrong.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand began, in that damned voice he’d usually reserved to deescalate war council debates, “I should hope that my actions have demonstrated just how unlike my father I am. Every single one.” 

“Untrue,” Hubert sneered. “In the end, you’re both cowards who betrayed the Empire.”

“Perhaps my father’s decisions were bred from cowardice,” Ferdinand returned levelly, “but I was not afraid to make my choices.”

“You do not grovel, I’ll grant you that,” said Hubert, feigning polite agreement. “But you are still a coward without spine or loyalty enough to follow through on his pledges.”

“Because they were _wrong_ ,” Ferdinand argued, emphatic, though he’d yet to raise his voice. “I may have followed you and Edelgard at first—and do not mistake me; any dedication to your cause back then was _meant_ —but it became more and more obvious over time that there were issues we could never agree on, that were too monumental to ignore.”

Hubert barked out a short laugh; he couldn’t help himself. “Absolutely absurd,” he muttered. “All this time and the river hasn’t dried.”

He continued before Ferdinand could have a chance to respond. “No matter. You’ll bear the consequences accordingly. Stand trial for treason, I’d imagine.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you remember what we do with convicted traitors.”

“I remember.”

“You don’t sound concerned. That’s a mistake.”

Ferdinand met his eyes; their gazes held. Ferdinand’s was tired, but resolute. The magical fire lighting the cell reflected in his eyes.

“I am not afraid of you, Hubert.”

Hubert stepped nearer, until he could practically feel the cold iron bars against the tip of his nose.

“No,” he murmured, inexplicably drawn to the gentle golden glow. “You never have been.” He closed his eyes, let air fill his lungs and straighten his posture, before sharpening his stare. “Unfortunately for you, your interrogation is out of my jurisdiction.”

“I see.” Ferdinand’s face flickered with an emotion Hubert couldn’t place, but ridiculously wished to know. It made his stomach curdle like spoiled milk. “Then why did you come?”

Hubert grimaced, frustration prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. This had been nothing but a pointless trap, and he’d walked right into it. Shame on him for his reckless decision—but curse Ferdinand for even daring to try to reach him like this, after he’d lost all right to—

He wrenched his sight away from the cell, backtracking away, a sideways shift towards the door at the end of the hallway. “Call it a morbid curiosity,” he said finally.

The sound of shuffling movement, of metal chains grating. “And?” Ferdinand’s voice, closer than before. “Was it satisfied?”

“Disappointed.” Hubert’s body screamed as it resisted the urge to turn around at Ferdinand’s sharp intake of breath. “Good luck with your interrogation. I daresay you’ll need it.” With that, he extinguished the flame and marched for the exit.

Ferdinand called after him, “Hubert, wait—”

But it was too late. With shaking limbs that dragged like lead, Hubert left him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one ended up so short! The others will all be longer, from here on out. 
> 
> As always, feel free to scream at me on twitter [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exercises in futility.

Lord Arundel awaited him in the tea gardens when Hubert finally met with him the following afternoon. He sat up straight, long hair neatly combed back. He sipped daintily from a teacup that was too small for his greedy hands with all the false grace of a pretender lord, and his pale eyes narrowed sharply as they settled on Hubert striding towards him.

“Good afternoon, Hubert.” His lips moved around the fine porcelain. “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten me.”

Hubert took a seat across him and offered a thin smile. “Regent. Thank you for your patience. I had some rather important matters to deal with prior to our scheduled meeting.”

Lord Arundel held his gaze, maintaining his mask of neutrality despite the slight; they both knew how the game was played, by now. “So fortunate that the stray who feeds from a generous hand makes good on its loyalty,” he replied, slippery as silk.

If there was one thing Hubert hated more than his sardonic diatribe, it was those piercing eyes. Eyes that had been passed down the bloodline to Edelgard as well, that served as a reminder of family each time she was forced to look upon him. A reminder of failure, of loss, of treachery. Even now, they danced to the tune of deceit, vying for turns to lead with the melody. Edelgard’s pain mounted every day.

Hubert rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin up with the back of a hand. A cup had been poured for him, but he had no intention of reaching for it. “I work, as always, to our nation’s benefit. I’m sure you realize how monumental my work is in gathering intelligence for our upcoming assault on Derdriu.”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of distancing you from that work,” Lord Arundel said smoothly. “Your efforts—and accomplishments—are well recognized. However, I cannot help but notice the lack of updates on several of the requisitions I’ve sent to you for approval.”

And there it was. Hubert had known it would only be a matter of time before Lord Arundel would no longer stand for this insolence. He’d rather hoped the imposter would have had a legitimate task for him to accomplish instead of this fake regal parading around. The backs of Hubert’s eyes burned from a night of fitful sleep, from holding his heavy eyelids open every second of this damned conversation.

Still, Hubert bit back a sigh and continued to gift Lord Arundel with a modest upturn to his lips. “Several requisitions, you say? Do you have a precise number? A date, perhaps, or a recap as to their contents?”

That was a gamble against Lord Arundel’s temper, now. If the requests evolved into orders, Hubert would be as good as locked up in a jail of his own, where defiance could never be an option. In the semi-public space of the monastery greenery, where others bustled and spoke, the scales were precariously tipped in Hubert’s favor. That fact did little to inspire confidence, but he kept his face impassive.

Lord Arundel leaned over the table with a sinister leer. “I’m quite certain you’re not so negligent as to overlook the details of even a single missive to reach your desk,” he said with an aura of supreme conviction. “I trust you’ll remedy the situation within the briefest delays.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Hmm.” The sound rumbled from him, reeking with sheer condescension. “In the meantime, perhaps you can entertain a more…significant request.”

Hubert very much wished to do nothing of the sort, to return to his office and drown himself in coffee and paperwork that markedly did not feature Lord Arundel’s meddling name, to erase the challenging stares seared into his retinas, the thoughts of chains that plagued him. A request, though. His brain latched onto that.

“It’s been a while since you’ve conferred with me for such things,” said Hubert. “I hope you haven’t stumbled upon some trouble handling your test subjects again.”

Lord Arundel placed his arms on the table and steepled his fingers. “No such issues to speak of,” he assured in a tone that was meant to be placating and sounded anything but. “Quite to the contrary, your cooperation with this matter could bring my researchers to the verge of experimental breakthrough.” His grin widened and his pale eyes glinted hungrily. “I hear you’re holding a Cichol crest bearer captive in the dungeons.”

Hubert’s mind shuttered. He could dimly hear the agonized screams in the distant recesses of his memories, feel the damp tears staining his shirtsleeves. A past of helplessness in the face of his lady’s torture coupled with a vow to never allow such atrocities to be committed against anyone, ever again. Horrors he would not dare wish on even his most loathsome enemies. And certainly not—not—

How much had he revealed, just now? He blinked, slowly. Lifted a second hand to support his jaw. “Regent,” he simpered, “you wouldn’t be referring to the defector, would you? You must realize his intel is of utmost importance to ensure a swift end to the Alliance.”

Lord Arundel’s eyebrows slanted; a flash of relief flooded Hubert’s body. A moment later, his clouded expression cleared into dangerous sympathy. “Of course, of course,” he said with an airy chuckle. “I would never suggest to prevent you from obtaining such vital information. I am proposing a scenario that would be mutually beneficial, you see? My researchers get the blood of Cichol, and your interrogators gain the advantage of his helpless state to better retrieve the answers they seek.”

Head tilted downwards, Hubert let his eyes flit to Lord Arundel’s face in the most menacing fashion he knew. “I must have misheard you,” he said coolly. “Are you insinuating that my interrogators are not up to the task on their own?”

Lord Arundel sat still as a cliffside against the tide, undeterred. “Temperance, Hubert,” he warned, for there was no mistaking the warning in his voice. “It will not do to behave brashly in times of war.” He smiled, that duplicitous monstrosity he reserved for the role of a wizened and caring uncle. Even as a child, it had never fooled Hubert. “You do not need to make up your mind right away. Take all the time you need.”

 _All the time to demonstrate how futile your efforts will be without my aid_ , was what he meant. He might as well have said exactly that with the way his words rang viciously in Hubert’s ears.

Nevertheless, Hubert bestowed a practiced, grateful smile, a polite inclination of the head. “Quite magnanimous of you,” he said.

Lord Arundel tipped his cup towards Hubert in acknowledgement before drinking from it one last time. A gentle clink, and it was back on the tray, and Lord Arundel pushed himself to his feet.

“That will do for now,” he said, while Hubert remained rooted to his seat, his final act of affront. “The requisition will be delivered to your office posthaste for your consideration, where it will presumably join the others you’ve been purposely ignoring. Do take care not to sweep them aside this time.”

A contemptuous glance, then Lord Arundel turned on his heels. Hubert watched him go, observing his movements. When he caught a glimpse of one of his agents tracking from afar, Hubert permitted himself a sigh and closed his eyes.

They burned even more fiercely now, even as he rubbed at them with his palms. He hadn’t pushed his luck with Lord Arundel yet. They had months, perhaps even years, before they entered the endgame. Until then, Lord Arundel could rely on Hubert’s continued cooperation, along with his strategic resistance.

He could put off the supplies requisitions for a while longer before they’d become a bargaining chip against those appalling methodologies. Time had a way of wearing down on everyone. If he was lucky, his concerns would prove unfounded.

Somehow, he doubted that would be the case.

Hubert groaned, tired limbs protesting as he stood. There was no sense in thinking about it. He didn’t warrant the time of day. Coffee would serve as the immediate object of his focus, and then he had work to do.

~o~

Three days of slumber that was not rest, of that formerly safe burrow beneath a weighted blanket mutated into entrapment where escape only came from thrashing limbs. Three days of deadly plants to learn, one of which to contemplate importing seeds for his research lab. Three days of reports, of invasion plans, of gathering intel, of stealing precious knowledge from prisoners desperate to spare themselves the brutalities Hubert’s wrath might bring. Three days of tamped-down impatience, of anticipation ahead of the next scheduled interrogation.

Three days of those thinly veiled threats bouncing off the walls of his reveries, echoing and building upon the growing dread that if there was ever a captive capable of defying expectation, of thwarting all his careful work, it would doubtless be Ferdinand von Aegir.

Ashlen delivered her oral report with admirable professionalism for someone conveying all Hubert predicted but fervently opposed. If nothing else, he had to commend her for that.

That was unfair. Ashlen was his brightest, most conscientious student; Hubert had never before been touched with pride enough for the word _protégé_ to filter naturally through. If he continued to play his cards right, Lord Arundel would never know her—would never notice her particular brand of venom until he was already choking on it.

“…adjusted our timetable, and planned practices, accordingly,” she finished. She procured a folded sheet of parchment from somewhere beneath her robes and handed it over the desk into Hubert’s extended hand.

He discarded it to the side of his stack of reports, an eyebrow cocked, never taking his eyes off her as he did. She faced him, quiet and immovable.

“Fast learner, are you,” he said. It was not a question.

“I will not neglect my duty, sir,” she answered evenly.

“As you were, then. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Hubert waited until her paces had faded and internally counted to ten. Then he opened Ashlen’s paper.

The agenda was incredibly comprehensive. Dates, times, methodologies were all meticulously plotted to the page—specificities Hubert never should have been privy to. And yet, he could not discern whether this present was poison or prize.

She’d made this choice for a reason, be it a show of support or a tactical supplement to her work. Ruthless in the pursuit of results, whichever form they might take, whatever problem they might solve.

It was objectively impressive. He’d have to see if he could coordinate a few coincidental run-ins with Bernadetta.

Regardless of the future’s unknowns, Ashlen had granted him agency he should neither desire nor deserve.

Hubert scanned the schedule. Two days from now, mid-morning.

The crack of dawn it would be.

~o~

The dungeons did not know natural light, and so it would be impossible for anyone wasting away behind bars to know that the sun had just begun to grace the world with a new day. No more basking in the heat, no more rays of light beaming down on radiant hair. Potentially never again, pending trial and judgement—

Hubert weaved magical life into an unburnt torch on the wall and faced Ferdinand’s cell.

As with their previous encounter, Ferdinand’s arm rose up to shield his face. His clothes were smudged with black, and there was a veritable hole over his left knee now. His hair was in a state of disarray, strands loosely streaking over his forehead, sticking out at the sides and ends. This time, however, he did not scuttle deeper into the cell.

“Complacent today, I see,” Ferdinand called derisively. His voice hadn’t strengthened, per se; it was still hoarse, but it carried a disaffected tone, a deliberately crafted barrier against the barrage of cruel commands that would not penetrate his senseless ears and mar his spirit.

Hubert retorted, “Don’t be a fool,” and Ferdinand’s arm dropped.

He looked up at Hubert, then, his cracked lips perfectly parted around the shape of a silent _oh_ , his eyes glittering gold coins.

If nothing else, at least this ridiculous expression served as reparations enough for Hubert’s decision to visit him again. Even now, the fragments of possibility were tenuous at best, their placement and effectiveness in a grander design a void of unknown. Ferdinand could do no worse than he had already; Hubert would bet on that much at least.

His silence dragged on. Hubert let it. Ferdinand’s walls could fracture first, this time.

Finally: “I thought you had no part in this.” Hubert’s shoulder twitched in the shadow of a shrug. Ferdinand arched an eyebrow. “Or is this another morbid curiosity?”

“If I were you,” Hubert said, with painstaking purpose, “I would practice some self-preservation. There is no alternative where this ends well for you.”

Ferdinand actually laughed, but it was bitter and disingenuous, so unlike the effervescent chords that used to chime above ground. “The empire’s acclaimed spymaster and strategist has not considered the risk of failure? That cannot be right.”

Hubert snorted. “If commanders only sent their troops to war with a one hundred percent chance of victory, we would not be here.”

“You seriously have no contingency in place for when you suffer defeat at the hands of the Alliance?”

“My plans are none of your concern.”

“Well,” Ferdinand said, puffing out his chest, eyes glinting severely, “then it is not my problem that you have not considered further alternatives. When the Alliance claims victory, you will do well to remember my words.”

“The Alliance will fall,” Hubert growled, stepping closer. “Your pitiful friends will drop one by one like common flies, and maybe you’ll be fortunate enough to forget that I told you so when you’re standing on the executioner’s block.”

“The war is far from over just because you’ve taken the Bridge,” Ferdinand scoffed, infuriating in his self-assurance.

“The Alliance will fall,” Hubert repeated, “regardless of what you say or believe. I suggest you begin talking next time someone asks you a question, and maybe, just maybe, you can spare yourself the defector’s fate.”

“I do not need to answer to anyone,” said Ferdinand. “I am not a coward who quakes beneath the slightest danger. My patience will be rewarded and justice will be served.”

Hubert lunged for the bars; they rattled furiously with the maddening urge to shake some sense into this colossal idiot—

“Damn it, Ferdinand, will you cease your blasted sanctimonious rhetoric and listen to reason for once in your miserable existence?” he snapped, and damn it all, damn Ferdinand for being so stubborn, damn himself for even giving him the option to be spared from a wretched fate, and for what? For _what_? It was akin to an out-of-body experience, the way his next words were wrenched out of him with savage ferocity, laced with spittle. “A month from now, the Alliance will no longer exist. Whatever foolish fantasies of a heroic rescue you’ve harbored in your brain, you might as well shatter before you raise your hopes too high. If you continue like this, only the death penalty awaits you.” Hubert grinded his teeth against the inevitability of a worse fate, which would make death seem like a mercy in comparison. “Dignity means nothing when your impact on this war has been reduced to a speck of dirt beneath your feet. Swallow your pride and cooperate, and give yourself a fucking chance to change the outcome of your trial.”

A pause, then, save for Hubert’s heavy breathing, and nothing from Ferdinand. Nothing but the full force of his gaze directly on Hubert’s, powerful as the sun scorching his skin. Calm and assessing. Devoid of any fear.

“And how,” Ferdinand said slowly, choosing his words, “am I to believe this is genuine, and not simply some attempt to sway me?”

That was the trick, wasn’t it.

Hubert released the bars and stepped back, all the fight drained out of him, vanished into the prison’s shadows. If all this time—no. He refused to let such thoughts take wing now.

Instead he sighed, a cursed, miserable thing. Raised a hand towards the torch, fingers poised to snatch the light away. A swift retreat proceeding performance on a false stage. All behind the shelter of the curtain, before it could be pulled to expose his true façade.

“Tread cautiously, Ferdinand,” he advised. “You may not have much time. Or maybe you do. Who knows if you can trust my word, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Hubert makes a very bad decision.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of very bad decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bookkeeping things: I've added the chapter count, and modified some of the tags / added new relevant ones!
> 
> CW warnings for this chapter: aftermath of torture and prison sex. More details in the end notes for anyone concerned. If anyone feels more is needed, please please please let me know so I can make the appropriate fixes.

Dorothea studied the map’s charted tour route with perfectly narrowed eyebrows. Without looking across the desk at Hubert, she said, the epitome of friendly casual, “I see you’ve chosen to ignore all of my suggestions. If I’d have known you were going to make an executive decision without regard for my expertise, I wouldn’t have offered.”

Well, she wasn’t fussing, really. Hubert counted himself lucky. “I have my reasons.”

She flashed him a lethal smile. “I’m sure you do.”

No one but the agents he’d planted in the Mittelfrank Opera Company knew why Hubert had chosen some of the locales for their upcoming nationwide tour, first visiting the western reaches of the Empire before circling east. Depending on how things proceeded in the coming weeks—the army’s departure for Derdriu mere days away—the itinerary could be promptly adjusted to traverse Alliance territory as well. Ideally, that wouldn’t be necessary. If Hubert’s current leads were correct…

Regardless, Dorothea would never uncover the truth. Not if he could help it.

Her expression relaxed into something playful. “Opening night on a makeshift stage here at the monastery, the night before you march. Should I expect the entire army nipping at my heels?”

“Depends on how convincing a performance you put on,” Hubert drawled.

“Hubie, do you have any qualms with my abilities?”

“Not in the slightest,” he assured smoothly. “They will love you.”

Dorothea arched an eyebrow. “But you won’t,” she observed. She had that uncanny capability of sounding both supremely judgmental yet also not at the same time. The glint in her emerald eyes did nothing to tip the scales in either direction.

“Frivolities and celebrations are good for the army’s morale,” Hubert clarified. “I, on the other hand, am motivated enough without them.”

Dorothea flattened her palms against Hubert’s desk with enough force to command sound and stood gracefully. “Hubie,” she warned, “we’ve talked about this. We made a deal.”

Hubert glared at her. “I walk to my office every other day,” he reminded her.

“And I appreciate that, Hubie, but unless you’re going to tell me you plan on going to bed early on opening night—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Dorothea held out her palms and hunched her shoulders as if to say, _See?_

Hubert sighed. It was bad enough having Edelgard on his back. Sometimes he wondered if she’d set the rest of the Strike Force up for the purposes of his explicit torment. He didn’t…hate it. That was too strong a word. But he didn’t enjoy it either. Being cared for was exhausting. He wished to melt back into the shadows.

He didn’t regret the course his comrades’ affections had taken, was the thing. The encyclopedia of deadly plants was informative and useful in expanding his interrogation and espionage tactics. His presence around the monastery guaranteed no one would be slacking on their work. Linhardt’s concession to allow Hubert’s participation in his crest research helped them learn more, faster.

Though that was more likely due to Linhardt appreciating scientific breakthroughs enough to endure Hubert’s company.

Even so. It would not do to alienate any of them now. They all played essential roles in this war, and Hubert would be remiss not to acknowledge how valuable they had been to Edelgard.

“I have many affairs to set in order before I leave with the rest of the army,” he explained. This was like pulling teeth. “Surely you don’t expect me to shirk my duties?”

Dorothea made a show of rolling her eyes. “You ensure your affairs are in order for the next two months at least,” she pointed out. “You can take one night off to come see little old me.”

Hubert dragged a hand down his face. “How about this: when you reach Enbarr for the grand finale, I will do my utmost to be there.”

She considered him for a long moment. He coolly stared back.

Dorothea’s shoulders sagged. “All right,” she relented. She crossed the distance between the desk and the door, heels clicking as she went. She paused at the exit, and with her back still turned to him, called out with unmistakable contempt: “You better not be visiting _Ferdie_ instead.”

Hubert smoldered. “Don’t you have rehearsals to get to?” he snapped.

She lifted a hand in a mock wave, and then she left.

Hubert released a full-bodied groan once she was out of earshot. No. There was no way she’d known the truth. A ploy, a venture to get a rise out of him. And he’d given away nothing. He’d refused to dignify that particular remark with a response.

Besides, he hadn’t visited in almost a week now. There’d been no point. He’d said what he’d needed to say. If Ferdinand insisted on being so unapologetically stubborn, well—it had been years since he’d expressed remorse for anything, after all.

It wouldn’t change things in Derdriu. His network had gathered sufficient intelligence even without Ferdinand’s cooperation. Hubert oversaw those matters, and he didn’t require a trip to the cells to know Ferdinand had decidedly not contributed. His reports told him enough through process of elimination.

It would, however, change things for the other war.

Hubert’s head thunked over his desk. He groped around for his coffee mug.

Curse Dorothea for putting the idea in his head. Now, there would be no respite until he saw it through.

~o~

From the moment Hubert cast light into the dungeons, he knew something was wrong.

It was more than the trepidation that had caressed its way down his spine for the past three days as he gradually came to terms with the certainty that he was going to disappoint Dorothea. He’d requested a favor from Bernadetta to prepare a simple floral arrangement to deliver to her “backstage” by way of apology. Hopefully that would mollify her enough.

Despite his efforts of placation, the fact of the matter was that he’d caved again, as surely as they’d taken the Bridge of Myrddin. He’d always held a thankless job, and he welcomed it as wholeheartedly as one with reputable ice in his veins could, but this felt like several steps below his usual. Because it was. There would be no glorified results to witness from afar in this, no crimson back shining in the sun to prove his methods’ worth. Just Hubert and the specters of his festering shame.

That lingering disgrace, however, was normal. What wasn’t normal was the lack of sound: no angry hiss at the sudden brightness in the pitch black; no startled shuffling against the stone; no clinking of chains. Just. Utter silence.

Ferdinand was propped up in a corner, sitting cross-legged with his hands in his lap. His head was bowed, his face obscured by a curtain of dirtied, tangled orange hair.

Hubert approached the bars with bated breath. “Ferdinand?” he said softly.

Ferdinand’s head lifted up.

Hubert’s blood ran cold.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Hubert had personally instructed all of his agents in interrogation techniques, after all. He’d taught them where, and how, to strike—psychologically and physically.

Ferdinand’s clothes had new rips and cuts in them. His arms were littered with scratch marks and odd bruises, the kinds that stemmed from broken bones that had been put back together with magic. Enough healing to not scar more severely than standard battle wounds, in the long run.

They hadn’t tended to his face.

Hubert’s breath rattled out of him. Ferdinand was sporting a black eye; the swelling had gone down, and the skin was blotched purple, but his amber eye still peered through. Dried blood had caked down one nostril, over his upper lip. His lip, which had split, cracked and dry. That was newer.

A face once like porcelain, now fractured and abused. And Hubert couldn’t dare wish himself to repair it.

Somehow…somehow, after all this time, even with his features marred so, Hubert still found him beautiful.

Ferdinand spoke, quiet and hoarse and disaffected. “Come to gloat?”

Hubert blinked. “No. No, I…” His thoughts scattered, and he moved on instinct. That instinct compelled him to engulf the area in a silence spell, unlock the cell, and step inside, stopping only once he was crouching in front of Ferdinand and reaching out for his face with gloved hands.

“What are you—”

“Hush.”

He tilted Ferdinand’s trembling chin with one hand and examined the blood that had dribbled out of his nose, over his lip. Used his other hand to wipe some of it away. Then he traced the bruising around Ferdinand’s eye. Pressed lightly, testing, relenting only upon hearing Ferdinand’s sharp intake of breath.

Something jolted in Hubert’s gut at that, something dark and unknown and exhilarating. He passed over the varying shades of purples and yellows, giving each blemished inch of skin its due diligence. Ferdinand remained tense and unmoving under his touch, his only reactions the hitches in his breathing when Hubert pushed too far.

There was a startling intimacy to this, to them. A memory flashed before his eyes, flaring to vivid life: an infirmary bed, locks of hair strewn across the pillow—freckled skin against gloves. A turning point, brimming with the promise of something good.

It could have stayed good, if only Ferdinand hadn’t—

Hubert lowered his hands, exhaling through his teeth. What the fuck was he playing at? What wretched impulse was he entertaining, in this? Fantasies of a far-fetched future, a line of possibility pulled taut to snapping. He’d shredded those dreams and scattered them in the trail of ashes left in the wake of their war. In which Ferdinand would be reduced to nothing but a nameless casualty.

That was what he deserved. Not—whatever this ghastly display of weakness was.

Deflated, Hubert pushed himself to his feet and looked away. “Seems to be healing fine.”

Ferdinand snorted. “I did not think you cared.”

“You misunderstand me,” Hubert replied callously. “You’re the one who’s always been concerned with maintaining your perfect image.”

“A rather lackluster retort. You know full well I bear all my scars proudly.”

“To a revolting extent.”

The scrape of metal penetrated Hubert’s eardrums. He turned back to find Ferdinand shakily rising to his feet. Hubert had always been taller, but he had a habit of slouching. And as Ferdinand slowly drew himself to full height, as his eyes glinted dangerously, Hubert felt absurdly small.

“If I revolt you so much,” Ferdinand declared, so grandiose despite the imperfections decorating his face, “why have you not simply disposed of me yet? You have already made it clear you have no use for me, and you know I will not inform on my allies.”

Rage rushed through him so swiftly, so potent and vast, that Hubert nearly staggered with the weight of it. “Bastard. Liar. You—”

Amber eyes probed straight into his soul. “And yet, you keep coming back. What is it that you want from me, truly?”

It was too much. The sheer audacity, the blood and bruises, the ardent outbursts—everything.

Everything he’d once gravitated towards. Everything that repulsed him now. Everything he could not seem to escape.

“I want,” Hubert seethed, “your traitorous ass out of my dungeons and onto the gallows where you belong.”

Something flitted across Ferdinand’s face, though it could have just been a bizarre flicker of the light. “Of course. I shall not keep you waiting any longer, then. Do forgive my slow steps. These chains around my ankles are quite limiting to my stride.”

And then he attempted to step past Hubert, towards the unlocked, open jail cell.

Hubert was on him before he could even register what he was doing. Hands on shoulders, he shoved Ferdinand back, slamming him into the back wall. Ferdinand grunted, eyes wide, as the air was knocked out of him, but Hubert didn’t care. All this insolent goading had sent sparks searing through his veins, and now with their bodies crowded together, Hubert burned.

Chest to chest, thighs tangled, they might as well have been horizontal with the way Hubert’s world slanted. For an instant, he was back in his room, three years prior, Ferdinand’s head thunking against the pillow—no, the prison wall—

Mind disoriented and nerves blazing, Hubert pushed again, and when Ferdinand gasped and his eyes darkened, Hubert suddenly became aware of the hardness digging into his thigh. His thigh, which he had carelessly pressed between Ferdinand’s legs.

Heat flooded his body, painful and wrong, as he stared at Ferdinand in disbelief, in disgust, in—

Ferdinand matched him, eyes gleaming, taunting him, daring him.

“You loathsome degenerate,” Hubert gritted out, even as he unwittingly grinded his thigh against Ferdinand’s groin once more.

Ferdinand croaked, asked again, “What is it that you want from me?”

Hubert didn’t know what he wanted. Not as he released Ferdinand’s shoulders, not as he sunk to his knees, not as he tugged down Ferdinand’s trousers and found himself at eye level with Ferdinand’s straining red cock.

“Hubert,” whispered Ferdinand, his arms reaching out, “What are you—”

“If you wish for me to continue, then you will not lay a single finger on me,” Hubert ordered.

Ferdinand’s palms abruptly clapped against the stone behind him.

Hubert froze. Ferdinand…wanted this. This, but not Hubert, not truly. Not what he had given of himself. Not, he realized with a sick plummeting sensation in his stomach, the chance to fix even one rift between them, to indulge even one last request. Maybe more specifically, Ferdinand wanted the ghosts of what they once were. False. Incorporeal.

If that was what he wanted, then Hubert would humor him in this pretense, with this act that had never existed between them. A reminder, perhaps, that Ferdinand’s antics would not be tolerated.

He opened his mouth, leaned in, and wrapped his lips around the head of Ferdinand’s cock.

The first thing he noticed was the damp heat. He licked experimentally across the slit, drawing a muffled noise from Ferdinand. It was not a particularly pleasant taste, a bit salty and bitter but mostly bland. Hubert hadn’t the slightest clue what was so gratifying about this form of giving.

Ferdinand was readily responding to his ministrations, however, so Hubert continued, stretching his jaw to accommodate more of him. His teeth scraped across the shaft as he moved, eliciting a sharp whine. Hubert growled around Ferdinand’s cock, and the sounds grew in volume.

Hubert highly doubted the efficacy of his abilities, given he’d never actually done this for Ferdinand before, but he pursued his goal with ruthless intent, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking, as if the action could take him deeper. A tad too far, and he gagged, pulling back to the tip. From the corners of his stinging eyes, he could see Ferdinand’s nails raking against the stone wall. As he caught his breath, Ferdinand’s cock jumped on his tongue, beads of precome only serving to water his mouth further. Hubert gulped, grasping for relief, and Ferdinand loosed a strangled cry.

His gaze swept unbidden to Ferdinand’s face, to the rainbow of blue and yellow and purple bruises, to the reds and browns of blood, to the pink dusting across his freckled cheeks. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth agape as his chest heaved with the apparent effort of keeping still.

The sight sent Hubert’s blood boiling, even as it pounded between his ears. He dove in once more, sliding up and down Ferdinand’s shaft in a clumsy mix of tongue and teeth, determined to wrench Ferdinand’s climax from him. All of Ferdinand trembled around him, and the insistent moans from above echoed in Hubert’s brain.

“Wait,” Ferdinand pleaded, his voice cracking. “I’m going to—”

No. This was Hubert’s decision, not Ferdinand’s. Hubert bit down in warning, just a shallow indentation, and applied the most forceful suction he could.

With an anguished wail, Ferdinand spilled hot and heavy straight down Hubert’s throat. Hubert choked, his reflexes screaming at him to cough it all out. But he could not leave any evidence of what he’d done here, could not risk any indication of his gross dereliction of duty. So he scrambled to swallow before any of it could drip from his lips, and when he had wrung out the last drops of Ferdinand’s come, Hubert jerked away with a horrible wheeze.

Their tandem panting filled the cell as Hubert lurched to his feet and Ferdinand slumped down the wall, returning to his original seating position. His cock hung limply between his legs, and his fingers fumbled to put it back in his pants. Once he’d accomplished that, Ferdinand looked up at Hubert with a strange expression.

“What,” said Ferdinand sluggishly, “was that?”

Hubert didn’t know what that was. What he did know was that he’d hated every second of it, even as the core of him blistered with senseless betrayal.

His reply consisted of a shrug and a signature scowl. “Consider it a parting gift. The next time you see me, the Alliance will be no more.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Your doubts are inconsequential.”

Hubert stepped out of the cell, closing the door and locking it behind him. Then he dispelled the silence preventing any sounds from accidentally seeping through the walls. Ferdinand was uncharacteristically subdued as Hubert left. It was almost enough to make him turn back and demand him to speak his vermin mind once more. Almost.

It was early enough for the opera to still be in session. Not late enough to turn in for the night, then.

Once he was back in the main dungeon’s hallway, he warped back to his office, noting that his evening stack of papers had been picked up by one of his aides while he was gone. Even so, there was always more to be done.

The more he focused on his work, the easier it was to dispose of that awful coiling in his gut, that inexcusable throbbing in his pants. And as those faded, so did the taste of Ferdinand from his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand is being tortured as part of his interrogation. The torture itself is not depicted, though the results are described such that Hubert can piece together what was done (physical beatings). He's still in one piece. 
> 
> The prison sex is a blowjob. It's as consensual as it can possibly be given the circumstances.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alliance falls. Certain prisoners outwear their use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added again to describe the CW for this chapter! 
> 
> CW: minor character death. Please keep in mind that this fic does follow major aspects of CF route, which can result in certain character deaths. I promise no gory details.

There existed only one simple pleasure ranked higher than Hubert’s morning coffee, and that was attending Edelgard in the field. It wasn’t as if she’d ever deny him this selfish indulgence elsewhere, but there was too much work and too little time back at the monastery, save for the occasional evening nightcap—and even that grew rarer with each passing month.

In the field, however, with supervision of Hubert’s spy network left behind in Ashlen’s capable hands, he would be the first and last person she’d see each day. Just the two of them in her tent, a reminder of all they had borne, alone together, before they’d come to the Officers’ Academy.

They were very different people now. Edelgard had flourished into her title splendidly, and Hubert settled willingly into her rapidly expanding shadow.

The night they crossed the bridge at Myrddin, Edelgard accepted the teacup and saucer from him in their tent but did not sip from it. Instead, her eyes fixated on his face. She did not frown, but she…considered.

“Is the tea not steeped to your liking?” Hubert asked. While uncommon for him to improperly brew her favorite beverages, there were nights where her palate did not wish to cooperate for some unfathomable reason even Edelgard could not adequately explain.

“It’s not that,” Edelgard said. She patted the arm of the chair next to hers. “I know you will not partake, but will you sit with me?”

“As my lady commands.”

Some nights, she just sought his company. Hubert hadn’t understood that inclination for most of his time in her service, but that was of no consequence. Obeying her was easy, like drifting with a current. Sometimes it was gentle, other days tumultuous. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“By all means.”

“How are you doing?”

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “We are making good pace,” he replied. “We’ve encountered no unexpected obstacles thus far. You and I are partaking in a relaxing evening.”

Edelgard’s brow furrowed, her pale eyes piercing his. “That’s not an answer.”

“Have I given you any cause to—”

“Hubert, you know I’m referring to Ferdinand.”

They hadn’t broached the topic yet since they began marching, and there hadn’t been time since taking the bridge. Hubert figured she was bound to eventually mention it.

He sank deeper into the chair as he debated what to tell her. Lord Arundel’s request was out of the question. He could never inflict that sort of worry on her. But he’d also worried her with his wretched weaknesses for those two and a half years Ferdinand was with the Alliance. At a certain point, some things were no longer worth concealing.

“I visited him,” he admitted. Edelgard nodded, unperturbed, but she said nothing. “It was not pleasant. I am hoping this journey gives me better things to think about.”

Edelgard touched a hand to his, a gesture of comfort. “When we take Derdriu, he will be of no further use to us. Though it will be a while before we’ll have time for an official trial, I imagine.”

Hubert swallowed thickly and looked down at his magic-scarred hands. At Edelgard’s, so pristine in comparison, undamaged unlike so much of the rest of her. “A shame,” he said heavily, and silence lapsed between them.

“I’d always told our classmates they could leave if they wished,” Edelgard said suddenly. Hubert glanced up at her, but she was staring off at the cot on the other side of the tent. “I know we argued with Ferdinand on policy a lot, but I’d thought those were healthy debates.”

Hubert grunted his agreement; his throat was too dry to say more, and Edelgard knew it already.

“I have a confession to make: I visited him too.”

He jolted upright in his seat. “What?” he choked out. “Your Majesty—when—how—”

Edelgard afforded him a small smile. “I arranged it with Ashlen,” she explained, and there was a note in her voice that almost sounded like regret. “Shortly after we returned from Myrddin. I didn’t want to burden you, especially since I’d hoped you would stay out of this.”

Hubert groaned softly. Of course he’d even failed at respecting Edelgard’s recommendations.

He tamped down the humiliation rotting his ribcage, the lightning strike of jealousy and hurt that even Ferdinand had not disclosed it to him. Pathetic, when there was, quite frankly, no discernable reason that treacherous mind would ever presume to owe Hubert as much. “How was that?” he asked instead.

Edelgard shrugged, just a tiny hitch of a shoulder. “I wanted answers,” she said plainly. “I wanted to know why he never gave any indication as to how far his discontent with us had spread.”

Hubert wanted, for a moment, to press for the answer, but he squashed the impulse. There was no logic in it, not when he couldn’t be sure it would make him feel better or worse.

Instead, he let her continue. “I also wanted to see where his morals stood now, after how long the war has waged.”

That startled Hubert, and he tried to keep the tremor out of his voice when he spoke. “You… Did you think to recruit him back?”

Edelgard shook her head. “I mostly just wished to understand, for my own peace of mind,” she said. “Perhaps under different circumstances, I might have entertained the notion.” She straightened, regal authority returning to her tone. “I thought I could forgive him for defecting, you know, but I find myself wholly unable to.” Her expression darkened. “Not after what he did to you.”

Their roles were not supposed to be reversed like this. It settled wrong in his gut, a caustic failure. Amplified, now, when the concept of forgiveness muddled in his brain, when Hubert could no longer ascertain his own convictions.

Edelgard peered into his eyes. “I don’t think you should visit him again,” she said gently.

Hubert sighed. “I agree entirely.” That was the honest truth, even if he could not promise to heed her words, just as he couldn’t his own conflicted desires.

Mercifully, Edelgard appeared satisfied with the direction of their discussion. “Well then,” she said, transitioning into a more businesslike demeanor, “enough of that. Let’s talk strategy. Have our scouts encountered any resistance between here and Derdriu?”

This was a splash of cool water across his face, the harsh bite of coffee triggering him into wakefulness and action. His mind whirred back to work, primed and eager to serve, to accomplish, to prove he would do all it took to win his lady’s war.

“It appears von Riegan is calling back all troops and preparing for a final stand in Derdriu,” Hubert reported. “Our path is clear.”

Edelgard listened with rapt attention, sipping her tea as Hubert spared no detail, revitalized by the odds stacked overwhelmingly in their favor. The thrill of their inevitable victory. One step at a time.

~o~

Taking Derdriu was chaotic. When the Almyran reinforcements emerged, it was like the missing puzzle piece slotted into place in Hubert’s mind. He knew with utmost certitude that he would need to reorganize his spy network in the aftermath, once they had time to actually stop and deliberate.

In the midst of battle, he could not give up even an instant. They reformulated their tactics on the spot with the combination of the professor’s quick instincts and Hubert’s expertise, and while the ambush left an unfortunate number of casualties in its wake, Hubert ensured the Alliance paid for it. When his clouds of miasma suffocated the Goneril girl and von Riegan’s anguished howl resounded from the skies, Hubert’s blood lit with it, unabashedly alive.

That adrenaline spurred him through the battle, until von Riegan ultimately called for the surrender of his remaining troops, and Edelgard delivered her swift judgment. From there, it was a matter of dispatching soldiers to occupy the city and search for survivors. Hubert had planned for this potential outcome; he oversaw everything. He surveyed the damages and organized the relief efforts. He assigned troops their newly designated jobs to establish a sustained presence not only in Derdriu, but in locations all across Leicester Alliance territory. Edelgard’s territory, now. 

He lingered near Edelgard’s side, even as he issued orders. There was a splatter of blood that did not belong to her on her cheek. She stood tall, every inch of earned majesty, her eyes steeled over as she gazed across the horizon. Her gaze floated to Hubert; it sparkled as her careful veneer of control cracked for just a moment, and she smiled, and Hubert was _happy_.

They drew ever closer to their goal.

~o~

Hubert had a decent enough makeshift desk he could work at from his tent whenever they were in the field, but it could never truly compare to the solace of his stuffy office at the monastery. He’d always preferred the cover of shadows to the open plains. And once they were back at Garreg Mach, he wholeheartedly drowned himself in his work.

He received a massive file from Ashlen compiling all of the goings-on and research results from his absence; there would be no shortage of affairs to manage. By now, the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s tour had celebrated their performances in three cities, and Hubert’s agents had so far carried out their secret missions without trouble. Discretion was of paramount importance here, but the lack of concrete results was mildly concerning. He was at least reassured by the fact that they hadn’t reached Arundel territory yet. Still, with the assimilation of the Alliance came so many more possibilities for the tour route. Hubert requisitioned records of suspected enemy bases, and spent hours long into the nights perusing them, mapping out the optimal route to try to flush them all out of their hiding spaces.

Of course, there were also several weeks’ worth of reports to catch up on. Hubert had authorized free reign to Ashlen during that time, in part due to her shrewd eye and keen sense for which cases were best left aside for Hubert to deal with personally upon his return. She had politely declined an invitation to tea from Lord Arundel in his stead, and Hubert allowed himself to bask in the wash of pride.

There was also the business of growing his spy network through Almyra—though disposing of von Riegan would limit any further distractions, House Goneril would still be tasked with maintaining Fodlan’s Locket. Hubert had heard the stories of Duke Goneril taking ill due to a bout of food poisoning shortly before Almyran attacks; it reeked of foul play, and he intended to uncover such plots.

All this and so much more demanded Hubert’s concentration. He welcomed it all. It kept his mind fresh, and it guaranteed that by the time he retired to his chambers most nights, he was asleep the moment he’d burrowed under his weighted blanket. And in the mornings, he came to the realization that he’d actually missed his reading routines while he was gone, even if he would not have traded his time attending Edelgard for it. 

The one aspect of his workload that did experience a reduction was the number of interrogations to perform. Hubert was confident the dungeons would see a resurgence in capacity as they turned their attention to toppling the Kingdom, but the timing of things granted them a brief reprieve, the prospect of focusing on other endeavors. The conquest of the Alliance meant that many of their current prisoners no longer fulfilled any use. Most could therefore be eliminated—unless they required a trial.

Ferdinand was the only Alliance prisoner left.

As far as Hubert knew, he would be subjected to their questioning one last time. One last chance to save face, as a token of goodwill. Hubert had no doubt Ferdinand wouldn’t take it. He would be resigned to a bleak and lonely prison cell for the rest of this lengthy war, prolonging his suffering as he wasted away to nothing more than skin and bone. Only a husk would remain by the time they could hold a trial in Enbarr, proof to their people that justice had been taken.

It was the fate he deserved. Hubert believed in this as fervently as he did their likelihood to win this war.

But it was also a fate that left Ferdinand a ripe fruit for Lord Arundel to sink his teeth into. And that was the one thing Hubert could not accept.

Edelgard’s words, though distanced by all they’d conquered since then, echoed between his ears. Hubert had wished he could follow her advice. He had known that he wouldn’t. He had embraced the spikes of shame and bitterness and pain even as they plunged through his chest.

All the acknowledgement in the world could not alter the fact that Hubert was the only one who could prevent Edelgard’s greatest fear from taking root once more.

The day before the final interrogation was scheduled to take place, Hubert visited Ferdinand’s cell. He did not even try to mask his movements this time, letting the door click shut behind him, letting his footsteps fall heavy against the stone floor. He cast light into the dungeons before he’d finished approaching the bars.

Ferdinand was ready for him, having had an opportunity to adjust his eyes.

“It seems you were sorely mistaken,” he said with a smirk.

Hubert scowled. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Ferdinand said, so pompously smug despite the scratches and bruises he still bore, “you vowed that the next time I saw you, the Alliance would be defeated. Yet that is not the case.”

Hubert laughed—he couldn’t help it. It burst from him, dark and manic. “Misguided fool,” he sneered. “The Leicester Alliance is no more, as promised. Maybe now you will finally learn to listen to me.”

Ferdinand showed no signs of vulnerability; he stared at Hubert with his usual unyielding determination. “Your people would not still be visiting me if that were true,” he declared. “Why else would they insist on trying—and failing—to pry any knowledge of Alliance movements from my hands?”

Hubert could only shake his head in disbelief. “There’s a reason you were never cut out for this type of work, and why I was always the one handling it,” he said. “You don’t have what it takes to understand the workings within the shadows.”

“Say what you will, but I will not fall for this poorly masked ploy to get information out of me.”

“Everyone you love is _dead_ , Ferdinand.”

The words stunned Ferdinand into silence as Hubert spat them out. Inspired by the look on his face, Hubert forged on, poised to hammer every last nail until Ferdinand was pinned by the weight of his sorrow, condemned to a monument of misery.

“Your dear friend Gloucester, who sheltered you in exchange for your intel when you deserted? He died at Myrddin. He’s been a corpse for weeks. We would have taken him in for questioning, but the healers couldn’t get to him in time. Not that it made any difference. We still collected everything we needed to take down Derdriu, and any of your other so-called friends with it. I personally saw to Goneril, you know. Von Riegan didn’t like that. Seems he’d hoped his underlings would escape with their lives—as if we would have tolerated that. Well, he joined them shortly. Too bad it’ll be some time for you yet.”

It was almost conversational, too casual when Hubert meant for cruel and unforgiving. And yet Ferdinand’s face crumpled. His shoulders sagged and his eyes dulled, and he sank back against the wall from his seated position in the corner.

“Not everyone,” he whispered, as if grasping for some invisible string of hope.

An attempt to convince himself it could not be true. Hubert recognized this, the first few stages of grief morphing his features. Emotion was breaking through his denial at long last.

It should have felt triumphant. It should have lifted Hubert’s spirits with the satisfaction of having dealt a decisive blow. Instead, Hubert’s insides were hollow.

Part of him almost wanted to apologize. But what use were empty words? Hubert could never speak such things with sincerity. Not when his sinister deeds had brought the most uninhibited smile to his emperor’s face. It had imparted him with such renewed motivation, these past weeks.

It wavered here, a weakness he couldn’t seem to abandon. But he could bear this a little bit longer, if only Ferdinand would talk in the end.

As Hubert slipped away without another word between them, he desperately wished it would be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goop will never let me live down the fact that I could have spared Claude but didn't. Trust me, I'm aware how horrible I am. This isn't meant to be a happy fic for a long time, otherwise Claude would be thriving right now because I love him dearly. 
> 
> I have been looking forward to writing the next chapter ever since I got the idea for this fic. Something big is coming!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dam breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally made it! This chapter has one of the moments this fic was built around, and I've been dying to get it out there. Burnout fucking sucks. I finally got back into it and started writing this chapter 3 weeks ago, barely managed to get any words on the page for two and a half weeks, and then wrote most of this in one day. Go figure. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Goop, Unrivaled, and Adaire for the constant encouragement and beta while I worked on this. A very special thanks to Birds for giving me permission to lovingly use the plant from his [absolutely incredible sex pollen fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094495) in Hubert's plant encyclopedia. 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: discussion of what TWSITD did to Edelgard and her siblings, and therefore, death/torture mentions. 
> 
> For extra dramatic effect, have a listen to [the song I had on repeat](https://youtu.be/iaj8s8DX0zQ) while writing this.

Sometimes, Hubert despised priorities.

He grimaced as he delved deeper into the description of _Zantedeschia mersus_. When the distillate of its petals was ingested, it induced a slow and excruciating death; no antidotes had been documented. Surely that warranted more than the measly half-page of summary while its pollen-derived utilities spanned a page and a quarter. There was no denying that such applications could boast beneficial results in coercion, or trigger scandals, but that sort of subtle touch was not a veritable option for them at this point in the war.

Dissatisfied, Hubert tugged the violet ribbon back into place and let the heavy tome fall shut, then took another swig of coffee. He greedily gulped down the scorching liquid, let it coat his throat and willed it to shock his body into a more heightened sense of wakefulness.

Unfortunately, his return to reality meant facing the repercussions of the failed interrogation. The folder had been delivered to his desk late yesterday afternoon, the outcome clearly labeled as final. And thus Hubert had been left scrounging for scraps he could paint over and pass for pretty delicacies in Lord Arundel’s eyes in lieu of the prize he so coveted. Petty distractions, more like, and they’d both know it, if Hubert neglected to relinquish anything of substance.

He stared hard at the knob to his desk drawer, but it did not catch fire. Wouldn’t, no matter how smoldering his gaze, if he could not muster desire enough to set the entire piece of furniture alight with magic. No, best he channel that energy elsewhere.

He’d been unable to find a suitable morsel to offer the leeches yesterday, so he’d have to correct that today. On top of the myriad of other responsibilities descending like dominoes onto his plate.

The one solace in all of this was that one of Hubert’s agents from the Mittelfrank tour was expected to arrive today. The preliminary reports had indicated that several raids in Arundel territory had been successfully undertaken, but the findings could not be penned to paper and sent back safely—too great a risk of interception, of vital intel falling into the wrong hands—even with use of the Vestra cipher.

No, instead his agent had faked an injury too arduous to continue touring, and had been charitably sent back home.

The anticipation of the event thrummed just beneath Hubert’s skin, mingling with the caffeinated buzz now permeating his system. This boded well.

He headed for his office in time to receive his morning reports—another request from Lord Arundel for rights to experiment on the prisoner, and Hubert made sure to wait until Ashlen had departed before releasing the full-bodied groan of frustration—but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary was afoot, and Hubert figured he might as well make a dent in the stack of documents before his next visitor arrived. He could deal with that blasted requisition once he had more information in his favor.

Once Hubert found his rhythm, the morning passed in a comfortable haze of activity. This kind of rote work was stimulating in its own way, buoyed by his own confidence that his influence would ensure the progression of Edelgard’s agenda. Two thirds of Fodlan united thus far, and only one nation left to grapple with—at least, on the surface, and then the real war could begin in earnest, and Hubert could devote himself entirely to seeing personally to Lord Arundel’s demise for all he had wrought, could guarantee the slippery snake suffered an eternity for the pain he’d inflicted on his lady—

A coded knock on the door, the telltale pattern of a very specific missive, and Hubert straightened in his chair. “Who is it?” he asked anyways, in case there were eavesdroppers.

“A mister Jason Bonneau, recently returned from the Mittelfrank tour due to injury,” came Ashlen’s voice from the hallway.

“Send him in. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door creaked open and his long-awaited agent limped inside. More matchstick than man, Bonneau wore loose traveler’s clothes that hung lamely off his shoulders and hips, and his hair was tousled from the road. Upon entering the monastery, he’d have been ordered to report to the Minister of the Imperial Household, just as any other newcomer. Keeping up appearances was of the utmost importance at this stage in the game.

Bonneau pushed the door shut behind him with his cane and immediately discarded the act, putting even weight on both feet while Hubert’s silence spell laced through the office. He faced Hubert with the appropriate reverence. “Sir.”

They didn’t waste each other’s time or breath on pleasantries. “Report,” said Hubert.

“All missions are proceeding according to schedule,” Bonneau said. “No suspicions raised; no trails left behind.”

That was the top priority, for discovery could spell their doom in more than just espionage. But this was not news. “And what of the raids’ results?”

Bonneau’s mousey face remained impassive. “Negative, sir.”

Hubert’s arms did not drop from where he’d propped them on his desk, but the spasm that coursed through them was nearly enough for him to lose control of his limbs.

“Explain yourself.”

He knew he’d maintained his severe expression, the narrowed slant of his eyebrows. A lesser man than Bonneau would be positively quaking in his boots.

But Bonneau did not flinch. His eyes glinted with the briefest hint of remorse.

“Shambhala is not there. There aren’t even any smaller hideouts in the area. There’s the laboratory underground Arundel estate, of course, but it’s just as empty as it was the last time we were there. No further signs of use.”

Hubert heard the words. Processed them. Held himself perfectly rigid even as the wash of frigid failure crashed into his spine, threatening to buckle and collapse everything they’ve worked towards.

The lead was a dead end.

He had nothing to trade for.

Ferdinand had ruined everything.

“Have you anything of interest to report at all?” Hubert gritted out.

“Nothing else, sir.”

“ _Dismissed_.”

Bonneau had the decency to acknowledge his damning report—if it could even be called that—with the disappointment in his eyes. It was not shame. But it certainly demonstrated understanding of the gravity of the situation, the connotations for their war efforts. He opened the door, threw half of his weight back over the cane, and shuffled back into the hall.

The standard phrase, “Best wishes for a speedy recovery,” left Hubert’s lips from muscle memory alone, years of training and protocols for upholding long term ruses. And the moment the door was closed again, Hubert’s nails were raking down the sides of his face.

His pulse was in his ears; it was as if they’d clogged underwater. He was faintly cognizant that the sharp scrape of his nails did not sting nearly as much as it should have for the force he’d utilized. Irrelevant. He could have unwittingly drawn blood and it would not matter. Not now, when the thick musk of his office pressed against him like a fog, constricting his chest, burning his lungs with every breath he drew.

He stood abruptly, unsteadily, the chair clattering to the floor behind him, one of the wooden legs knocking against his calf and sending him stumbling forward. He caught himself, palms splaying over scattered reports. Exhaled through his teeth as the racket from the tumbled chair pounded into his brain’s defenses, because he couldn’t—

He couldn’t _think_.

Couldn’t see, either, spots dancing across his vision from standing too quickly. Blinked heavily back into focus and turned his blistering gaze to the reports beneath his hands.

One smack on top of Lord Arundel’s request. A finger pointing directly at the line pending his signature.

The fuck was he to _do_?

How had his meticulous plans—built so painstakingly from nothing, earned through blood and sacrifice and burdens meant to bury their bearers with their weight—come to such fantastic devastation? Inconceivable that one man could be the pebble that toppled the mountain, that Ferdinand of all people could thwart their ambitions so carelessly, but of course it would be Ferdinand of all people, with his boundless optimism and stubborn foolish pride—

Hubert was marching for the dungeons before he’d even registered the thought. A slammed office door, an accidental bump from some insignificant soldier hastily pleading for mercy and ultimately ignored, and a murderous glower to the guard later, Hubert found himself lighting up the interior of Ferdinand’s cell with fire, and staring straight into equally bright eyes.

Eyes that seared through Hubert’s skull with their insolence.

Ferdinand opened his mouth to speak, but Hubert cut him off before his foul words could take root and fester.

“You will be tried for treason,” declared Hubert. “Charged with desertion. Charged with providing the late Alliance with highly classified intel that only the Black Eagle Strike Force was privy to. Charged with a direct assault against the Emperor herself— _do not even try to interrupt me_ —with the damage wrought by your antics. You knew full what would happen when you threw yourself at their mercy and fed them fit to stuffing with those plans. You gave them everything they needed to launch an ambush that directly endangered the lives of the most valuable assets to the Empire. Do not pretend it was something else. You made your views on us very clear that day.”

He was slipping out of the recitation of standard practices. Hubert ground his teeth and swallowed hard before sweeping that errant rush of betrayal back where it came from in the deep recesses of his mind.

“You will be found guilty,” Hubert stated. A plain and unwavering truth. “And you will be executed for your crimes, and all will know we were right to purge the von Aegir line from history.”

His words were met with silence at first. Ferdinand’s mouth had clamped shut the moment Hubert had nipped his attempted disruption in the bud, but now Hubert watched his jaw work, the rippling line of his throat.

Finally, Ferdinand said, “This is the fourth time you’ve alluded to my sentence. I must admit, I find it rather odd that your words have proven empty thus far. I always thought you were more perfunctory than this.”

Hubert bristled; the hairs on the back of his neck stood at ends. Part of him wanted to laugh helplessly, because Ferdinand was simply being Ferdinand, and while these attributes had once grown from grating to admirable, they were a rose’s thorns now, startling in their aggravation and intensity. Seemingly innocuous prickles jamming into his sides, piercing through the barriers to his heart.

For that was the crux of the matter, that Hubert had not the resolve to finalize what must be done. Haunted in waking and dreaming alike, Ferdinand had cleaved his way into Hubert’s chest cavity and taken up a parasitic residence within. Hubert’s heart pumped furiously in feeble retaliation, pulsing hot and violent blood through his veins yet freezing him to inaction.

And that was most infuriating of all.

“You don’t understand what I’m trying to do here,” Hubert said in a low growl, fighting off the blind rage that threatened to take hold, biting back secrets he couldn’t dare materialize and make true. “You have no idea.”

Ferdinand lifted his chin and answered airily, “You’re right; I don’t.” And oh, this was too much to bear, too absurd, and Hubert’s fists were clenched so tight, wet warmth trickling where he’d clawed into his own skin. “For all you supposedly cared for me, you did not care enough to ever let me in on what you had to do.”

“ _I loved you_!” Hubert roared. “ _I gave everything to you_!”

A sharp gasp, sucking away all air around them, stealing the rest from Hubert’s lungs.

Nothing but a void of stillness remained. Even the magical flame did not flicker.

Hubert couldn’t breathe.

Stunned and rattled by his own admission, he swayed on his feet. Humiliation, too, crashed upon him like a tidal wave, that he’d allowed these poisonous emotions to seep so deep into his system, to infect every nerve, every bone, every muscle. That all of his carefully constructed coping mechanisms had unraveled so seamlessly the second Ferdinand von Aegir reared back into his life as if he’d never left.

It was pure and utter failure.

Yet somehow, Ferdinand seemed just as frayed, and Hubert finally took stock of him, the way he’d sat cross-legged in his usual corner until Hubert’s untimely outburst sent his limbs askew. His hair matted with soot, splits trending upwards, spreading their damage. Sunken, dark circles beneath those eyes that widened and rounded like glittering coins.

Shocked and speechless, they could do nothing to tear their gazes away.

It was impossible to tell where the crumpling sensation within Hubert’s ribcage came from. His entire body felt like he had been smashed to pieces, crushed under rubble just like the cathedral ruins. He inhaled shakily; it sounded positively skeletal.

That noise was enough to shatter the moment.

Ferdinand’s mask slid back into place, as his brow furrowed once more, and he tilted his neck downwards, focusing instead on his tattered trousers. “Clearly not everything.”

The ice spilling down Hubert’s spines at those words jarred his faculties back into function, replacing excess sentiment with veritable argument.

“I gave you everything you needed to know to thrive in health and happiness in your position,” he seethed. “Anything else was withheld for your own protection against forces so fucking dangerous you could not even fathom the atrocities further insight would wreck upon you.”

Still, Ferdinand fought him. “I think I can decide for myself if I need protec—”

“You cannot possibly understand the gravity of—”

“I cannot if you do not tell me!”

“Fine!” Hubert’s arms jerked through the air; he cackled in spite of himself. “You really want to know? Fine. It doesn’t matter anymore if I tell you.”

He wove a silence spell through the stale air; the crackle of magic flared to life for an instant, and then their surroundings dulled.

If Ferdinand deemed himself undesiring of protection, then so be it. Hubert would indulge him, wipe the smirk off his face once and for all, make him pay tenfold for the damage he’d caused.

“Let’s start close to home, then, shall we?”

How he would delight in seeing Ferdinand’s world fall apart, in exacting his revenge.

“Your father, the former Duke Aegir, stole undeserved power thanks to bargains he made with an ancient civilization that has existed in tandem with all the tales of legend. They call themselves Agarthans, though I prefer to consider them as Those Who Slither in the Dark, for that is exactly what they do. Surely you are not so dimwitted as to have forgotten Solon or Kronya? They worked for that faction. They kidnapped Flayn back in our academy days to steal her blood so they could harness the power of her crest. A crest of one of the saints holds immense power, you see, if one can engineer it correctly. But misstep, and you end up with a hoard of demonic beasts.”

He could practically see the metaphorical gears turning in Ferdinand’s head, the way his lips parted slightly and his eyes glazed over as he internally processed this new information. When a stifled gasp confirmed the puzzle slotting into place, Hubert grinned and continued.

“But I digress. We were talking about your father’s involvement. I’m sure you remember his worthless diatribe about why the Insurrection of the Seven was necessary, how Ionius was _unfit to rule_. No. What was necessary was a tool to grant the Agarthans free reign in performing their experiments. And your father gave it to them in exchange for power.”

Hubert suppressed a shudder as the memories came rushing back. “Do you remember the real color of Edelgard’s hair, Ferdinand?”

A pregnant pause. “It was brown,” Ferdinand whispered, his lower lip trembling.

“That’s right. You were told it changed because of her illness.” Hubert barked out a laugh. “Illness is certainly one way to put it. The same blighted illness that took all of her siblings. Conveniently timed with when the Agarthans took them in for experimentation. They attempted to implant their crest technology into their bodies. Obviously, it didn’t take.” This time, there was no resisting the tremor that wrenched its way through him. “It killed them instead.”

Ferdinand’s mouth was agape, but no sound escaped. Hubert drank in his horror like it was fuel and cackled, practically giddy with it.

“Edelgard was the only success. The only survivor. And she suffered from their torture. She suffers from it to this day. It is an incredibly painful process, you know. And once they start, there is nothing anyone can do to help you. You either die a slow and agonizing death, or you live to tell the tale. Except it’s not a true life anymore. You’re on borrowed time as your body destroys itself from the inside out. It’s unsustainable in the long term.”

Dimly, Hubert realized that perhaps he was not as prepared to share this with Ferdinand as he’d initially thought. He felt the poorly contained rage bubble and boil over as if from outside of his own body.

“Even now, Lord Arundel holds the noose over Edelgard’s throat. He’s one of them too, you know. And he will delight in finding any means possible of hurting her further, including tormenting her closest allies. One miscalculation on her part, and he will squeeze every last ounce of air from her lungs.”

Ferdinand was so very still. In Hubert’s distant consciousness, the pressure built and burst.

“And _you_.” Ferdinand actually had the sense to cower this time. “You strut around like you are owed the world, constantly claiming superiority over Edelgard, attempting to outdo her at every moment, as if you know better—”

Ferdinand choked out, “That was _years_ ago.”

“Nothing’s changed!” Hubert snarled. He was yelling again, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You take and take and take, and it’s never enough. I gave you everything I possibly could, and for what? For you to throw it all away as if it meant absolutely nothing? Even now, you still try to make it all about you. You don’t listen, you don’t think. Fuck’s sake, Ferdinand, it never occurred to you that your blood was in danger, did it? Yours, Linhardt’s, Bernadetta’s. You all bear crests of the saints. And those snakes never claimed you because _we_ would not allow it.”

He couldn’t face him anymore. Hubert dissolved into peals of manic laughter.

“Lord Arundel has been asking after you since the moment we caught you, and I have been so diligently keeping him at bay, and for what? So you could throw a child’s tantrum because you can’t keep your nose out of sensitive business, because you could never bring yourself to trust the people who cared for and protected you? Very well. You want to understand what all of this is about? I’ll make you understand. And then you’ll wish I’d signed you off to the executioner’s block instead.”

Ferdinand cut in, urgent, “Hubert—”

But Hubert did not hear what came next. He had already warped out of the dungeon.

That he’d left without informing the guard mattered not. The instant his body stitched itself back together in his office, Hubert stormed over to his desk. Snatched Lord Arundel’s requisition. His eyes flitted over the phrase, _permission to conduct blood tests on the Cichol crest bearer_ , the words both blurred and crystal clear at the same time.

He grabbed for his quill, plunged it into the inkwell, and signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.

Took the requisition and raised it high, ready to slam it down on top of the stack of completed reports—

Stopped.

The room was so loud. He could acutely hear the sound of his own labored breathing, the blood thundering in his ears.

This was all wrong.

Hubert’s knees buckled, but his chair was still lopsided on the floor. He collapsed forward over his desk instead, shivering uncontrollably.

He couldn’t do this. Not in an impulse of anger.

He needed to think.

Gingerly, Hubert pushed himself back to his feet. He would not be able to deliberate here, not with the heavy reminder of what was at stake, and all that remained of his wretched heart. As loath as he was to admit it, he needed air.

He gently rearranged the signed page neatly over the center of his desk and lifted his chair to rights. When he returned, he would either keep it or destroy it. Yes. That would do.

Hubert strode out the door this time, and made his way to the Garreg Mach courtyard.

As he walked, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, taking in the cool breeze. It soothed the ache in his chest, and Hubert conceded that Dorothea had ample reason to insist he partake in more walks after all.

Since the tender age of six, Hubert had learned that any masterful strategist must weigh the merits and disadvantages of every move, in both the short and long term. It would not do to succumb to fleeting emotion. An overall benefit was required.

In the short term: the satisfaction of proving a point. Vengeance. In the long term…

There was only detriment.

As far as Hubert was aware, the Agarthans had yet to procure a sample of the crest of Cichol for their machinations. Present it to Lord Arundel, and Hubert would singlehandedly remove all of Edelgard’s hard-won loads from their side of the scales and gift it back to the monsters on a silver platter. There was no telling how much power they could gain from such a feat. How much ground Hubert would lose in locating their base and dismantling all of their technology from the inside out.

In wiping them from existence once and for all.

The stakes were too high for such a monumental risk.

And at the end of the day, Hubert did not wish for this anyways. The itch to inflict wounds, physical or mental, upon Ferdinand was strong, but it did not entail this. Could never. This sort of nightmare was Edelgard’s alone, and they fought so that never again would someone meet such a fate.

That settled it, then. Hubert would retrace the steps back to his office and turn the signed requisition to a crisp, and Lord Arundel would never lay hands upon such a precious specimen.

Ferdinand knew now. If Hubert could instead cling to the wild hope that perhaps Ferdinand might—

“Minister Vestra!”

Hubert whirled around to spot a foot soldier in full plate armor clamoring towards him. When he reached Hubert, he bent over, panting heavily. He must have sprinted the entire length of the courtyard, and possibly further.

“What is it, soldier?”

“Raid from the north!” gasped the soldier, snapping into a salute, and Hubert’s blood ran cold. “It’s the Knights of Seiros. They’ve come to attack the monastery!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Refocusing, and a tense battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took some liberties with the Protecting Garreg Mach battle with this one, but given we're following CF route here, this is where we're at with the war. Features canon-typical deaths, but no gory details. 
> 
> Thanks to Unrivaled and Adaire for the feedback!

Hubert was at the war table in a crackling flash of dark magic. Edelgard was already there, Byleth at her side, pouring over a blueprint of the monastery’s fortifications. Both of their eyes glinted steel, though one of Edelgard’s eyebrows twitched minutely. It was a tell so subtle that Hubert doubted even their discerning professor had caught on to its existence.

He strode forward, taking his spot at Edelgard’s other side, and observed the pieces already in place.

“A diversion for a pincer attack?” he mused. “Or for something else?”

“Too predictable,” Byleth agreed.

“How much time do we have?”

Edelgard’s eyes met his; he could see the calculations unfolding at lightning speed in her mind. “The rest of our generals will be here shortly,” she said. “We’ll move out as soon as this meeting is adjourned.”

“Do we have time for a strategy meeting?”

“No.”

Hubert exhaled slowly through his teeth. “I see.” He returned his consideration to where Byleth was marking up the map. “Our scouts have confirmed the bulk of their army is approaching the main gates. That should be easy enough to fend off.”

Byleth nodded. “That they would be bold enough to forego proper siege tactics means they’ve got something up their sleeves.”

“A job for the Black Eagle Strike Force, then,” Edelgard said.

Hubert noted, “We’ll need eyes.”

“And we’ll have them,” said Byleth. Unlike Edelgard, it was impossible to perceive the depth of their thoughts, but Hubert knew by now that there was so much more residing in that brain than they let on. “I’ll pair your battalion with Bernadetta’s.”

“We’ll require someone like Petra should they close in.”

It would be foolhardy to assume they could unquestionably prevent whatever special force the Church had in store for them from reaching melee range. A plan was only feasible until the first clash. Contingencies were crucial to success; to have them was no disrespect to anyone’s abilities.

Byleth circled their assigned location on the map, then moved to the monastery’s opposite end. “Caspar and Linhardt here,” they said. “The Death Knight can accompany them.”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed as the rest of the scheme made itself clear. “You and Her Majesty for the final watchpoint?”

“Correct.”

“Your Majesty, is this really—”

“Yes, Hubert,” Edelgard cut in, betraying the slightest hint of a sigh. “Byleth’s awareness is sound. And even if we should fall into an ambush, we will not have to wait long for reinforcements.”

“The same goes for you,” Byleth pointed out.

Hubert rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” His own safety was but a trifle compared to Edelgard’s, but the trust she had imparted to Byleth had yet to prove misplaced. If Hubert could not share that sentiment, well. Such was the life of a spymaster. It was safer that way, and he would simply dispatch more agents to their location during the battle.

Footsteps thudded from the hall, and Hubert internally counted down to the exact moment the doors swung open. Ladislava and Randolph marched in first, and from there it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Imperial Army’s generals gathered around the war table.

Hubert retreated to the far wall so as not to divert attention away from Edelgard when she gave her orders. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, quietly analyzing the body language and expressions across each of their faces, searching for any potential weak links. Bernadetta trembled, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, but that was standard. She would not hesitate on the field. Linhardt currently yawned, but the incoming bloodshed would spur him to alacrity. Randolph’s fists were clenched at his sides—anger that even with the monastery’s increased defenses, the Knights of Seiros had still deigned to launch an assault.

Ah. The shame of failure. It would lead to recklessness if left unchecked. Hubert made a mental reminder to send one of his men to advise Randolph once he was in position.

“We’ve no time to waste,” Edelgard finished. “Everyone, to your stations.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” came the answering chorus. And with that, the room emptied.

Hubert lingered with Edelgard and Byleth, gazing at his lady with intent.

“We will reconvene once this is over,” Edelgard said. “I expect to see you in good health.”

“And you.” Hubert leveled his stare at Byleth. They acknowledged his unspoken demand with a slight incline of their head.

Satisfied, or satisfied as much as he could be, Hubert warped to meet his battalion.

His scouts had assembled there as well. They all listened dutifully as he announced their assignments with no preamble, then saluted and leapt into action the moment he was done. Efficiency would be key here, and his people knew it.

At this point, all that remained was to rendezvous with Bernadetta and Petra on the ramparts. 

He arrived with his sorcerers first, as predicted, but they did not make him wait long. Bernadetta showed up next with her archers in tow, and they settled in a line across the wall, alternating with Hubert’s casters. Petra’s battalion rested at ground level, but she climbed the staircase alone to greet her fellow generals first.

“Would you like me to be waiting here with you?” Petra queried, no pleasantries exchanged. She had grown into a veritable warrior princess, and she executed her role with well-honed expertise.

“For now, yes,” Hubert confirmed. “We’ll need your eyes. Yours too, Bernadetta.”

“S-Sure,” Bernadetta squeaked, gripping her bow tightly against her chest.

Hubert sighed. “We have time.”

Petra smiled kindly at her. “This is true,” she said. “I will be taking watch further down if you have need of me.”

Hubert observed her confident gait traverse the wall, then glanced sidelong at Bernadetta. “If you have something to say, you might as well say it now.”

Bernadetta winced. “It’s just—are you sure you’re okay, Hubert?”

He blinked.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re upset about something,” she reasoned. “Your jaw is doing that thing where it’s clenched too hard and your teeth grind.”

He continued to stare at her incredulously, and she balked.

“Not that it’s super noticeable or anything! It’s just that Bernie’s got sensitive ears and she can hear things that most people can’t, and it’s so faint I can barely even hear it anyways, so I promise no one else knows about it, probably!”

Hubert carefully worked his jaw, and the change in tension was appalling. “I see.”

Bernadetta was still looking at him expectantly, or rather, she was looking just past his left ear expectantly. Hubert couldn’t afford to have her distracted.

“I am in a poor mood, yes,” he admitted. “I do not particularly appreciate that the Knights of Seiros would so openly march on our base in this way. I intend to make them pay for this.”

There was no lie in his statement. That he’d omitted the full story was of little consequence. But just as Bernadetta required placation to ensure her focus in this fight, Hubert needed to concentrate on their present predicament. Here, the air thick with anticipation, he could compartmentalize without issue.

So long as certain individuals restrained their meddling.

“Um, was the book helping, at least?” Bernadetta asked. “Until now, I mean?”

Hubert broke into a sneer, one he knew would make her squirm. “It has proven valuable in expanding my research, yes.”

He would never discover whether his feint had been detected. The instant he completed his sentence, his ears resonated with the clamor of war from afar, and Bernadetta’s expression hardened.

“I’ve got eyes on the main gate,” he informed her. “If something happens there, we’ll know. Same with the other sides. We have our orders. Can you handle this side?”

Bernadetta nodded as she scanned the area, the woods that stretched far as the eye could see. “I’ve got some scouts in the trees as well,” she said.

“Excellent. Report as soon as they catch anything.”

The sounds of battle in the distance visibly rattled some of her soldiers with the way their tense gazes darted frantically back and forth, but such was the way of things. As long as they heeded Bernadetta’s directives, they would not make stupid mistakes. Ideally.

He crossed the wall to where Petra was crouched and staring raptly through an arrowslit. “Nothing yet?”

She shook her head, never looking away from her target. “We will be finding their ambush no matter what,” she vowed. “Then you will not be so stressed.”

Hubert bit back a snarl. Did everyone and their mother think him too compromised to carry out his duties? “This will not be the battle to end the war,” he said icily.

Petra gave a hum of recognition. “But you are working very hard,” she said. “This is—what is the saying—one step at a time.”

The stress in Hubert’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. “That is true enough,” he conceded. Before she could spew any more introspective nonsense at him, he added, “Report the moment you find something,” and made for the interior of the nearest tower to receive his first report.

It was not much for the time being: the main army had engaged with the Knights of Seiros at the gates, and while Church reinforcements were on the way, the odds were promising. Which made it even more vital to locate and snuff out whatever hidden gambit they were attempting. Hubert had no doubt the Church was aiming to lure them into a false sense of security.

Time passed. Soldiers grew restless. More than once, Bernadetta had to command them to stand down; at one point, she threw a pleading glance Hubert’s way and he begrudgingly threatened them into obedience in her stead. Mostly, Hubert’s agents updated him of the progression at the front gates, but the mystery remained unsolved.

The lack of evidence began to grate on him, but Hubert tamped it down. He would endure. There would be ample work to do soon enough.

It came with a sudden pool of dark magic at Hubert’s feet.

He stepped aside just in time for one of his agents to appear in his shadow, all cloaked and masked as per protocol.

“Report,” Hubert ordered.

“They’re bringing fire through the woods,” the agent responded, his words clipped. “They plan to set the entire place ablaze.”

Of course.

“Send for the professor immediately,” Hubert said, his mind racing. “Another messenger to General von Bergliez’s location, one for General Macneary to take to the field, and another for General von Varley’s troops to provide cover.”

“And your battalion, sir?”

Hubert pursed his lips. “Send half of them out. The other will stay in defense until the rest of the Strike Force arrives.”

“Yes, sir!” He vanished in a wisp of smoke and magic.

It was not long before Byleth and Edelgard surged in. Hubert explained the situation and the current countermeasures he’d set into motion.

“We need more manpower to rush them and shut them down,” Byleth said once he’d finished.

“And leave the walls vulnerable?” Hubert argued.

Byleth shook their head. “We’ll leave some troops on guard, but the bulk of our forces need to be concentrated either at the main gates or preventing them from setting off that fire.”

A new agent warped in, making them all twitch.

“Pardon my interruption,” the sorcerer said, “but there’s been an urgent development. We’ve identified notable generals leading the detachment: Alois, Shamir, and Seteth.”

Edelgard swore. “All the more reason for us to engage the enemy now.”

Hubert couldn’t deny that. This was the opportune scenario for the Strike Force to deal the Church a devastating blow. Any hesitation would be their downfall now.

“That settles things,” Byleth said. “Petra and Bernadetta’s troops made up the first wave, yes? So Edelgard and I will be the second, with Hubert as our support. Caspar and Linhardt will be the third and final wave when they get here with the Death Knight.”

Hubert turned to his agent. “Remain here to relay that information to von Hevring and von Bergliez once they arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Edelgard hefted Aymr over her shoulder. The weapon gleamed hungrily in the sunlight, the illusion of flames trickling down its edges. “We’ve no time to waste,” she said. “Let’s move.”

Hubert wordlessly shadowed her and Byleth as they made their way past the monastery walls and entered the forest fray.

Petra’s hunters had done an excellent job of holding off the enemy’s approach so far, with Bernadetta’s squadron preserving the distance. With Edelgard and Byleth’s emergence, however, it meant they could start pushing back.

“Shamir is in front,” Byleth called. “We need to take her down quick and meet Seteth head on.”

They forged ahead. Out in the open air like this, Hubert’s miasma felt alive, radiating off his fingertips, eager to consume and destroy. Heavily armored Seiros Knights fell swiftly to his swarms of dark magic, ill-equipped to defend against them. The sight made Hubert grin.

Until an Onager struck from somewhere to their left, scattering Petra’s troops.

“It’s Alois!” Bernadetta cried as Petra struggled to regroup.

“Hubert, Bernadetta, deal with him,” Byleth said hastily.

A sound strategy. They would need ranged attacks to contend with Alois while the others handled Shamir.

Bernadetta’s instincts were sharp, and together with Hubert, they were able to chart the fastest possible path for her to begin sniping. Using the flurry of arrows as a cover, Hubert snuck closer and closer and pitched a mire spell straight into the breastplate of one of Alois’ guards.

From there, it was a controlled sort of chaos. Up close, the Onager was useless; up close, Hubert was vulnerable. He needed to eliminate the nearest enemies first. He hurled miasmas left and right, maintaining a constant motion. Tangled with Seiros Knights as he was, Bernadetta couldn’t help much apart from fire warning arrows to keep the enemy dispersed. At least her aim was true enough, in that.

Hubert and his sorcerers worked rapidly, suffering minimal losses as they toppled the group of soldiers ahead of them. Alois choked on a ferocious roar as blasts of dark magic finally sunk him. Further off, Hubert received the signal from one of his agents that Shamir had been defeated as well.

“We’ll need you and your archers to combat Seteth,” Hubert said to Bernadetta. “Better hurry back.”

“I’m on it,” she replied, and turned her back to him.

Hubert was about to do the same when he caught a glimpse of green too pale to belong to the foliage.

Damn it.

They should have all known that wherever Seteth went, Flayn would follow.

“I’ve got this!” a familiar, exuberant voice yelled out.

Hubert whirled to watch Caspar race ahead with a spring in his step and a battle cry of grim determination. Behind him, Linhardt huffed as he utterly failed to keep up. He was overtaken by the dark steed upon which the Death Knight rode, his scythe at the ready.

That would do nicely.

He dispatched a few agents to keep an eye on the tide of battle here, and went to rejoin Edelgard.

He made it in time to witness Seteth swooping down on his wyvern in a bid to land a hit on her, only to be forced back by a volley of Bernadetta’s arrows. As he retreated, Byleth flung the Sword of the Creator at him, ensnaring his mount’s leg.

It was the opening Edelgard needed.

And once the beast was felled, Seteth promptly met the same fate.

Hubert wasted no time admiring the smatter of blood. Shortly after, he obtained confirmation that Flayn had been slain as well.

There were very few enemy warriors left. Some fumbled back a few paces.

“We’ve won here,” Edelgard declared. “Let’s preserve the rout.”

And so they hounded the stragglers.

It was a smooth process, almost lackadaisical. Child’s play, really, when only the underlings remained.

Hubert vanquished a small group of them with Caspar by his side. He wasn’t sure if they’d killed so few because that was all that was left, or because Caspar’s booming voice scared them off.

“Anyways, I’m real glad we made it over in time,” Caspar was saying.

“Your timing worked out quite nicely,” Hubert assented.

Something rustled in the bushes and he stiffened, eyes darting in an attempt to locate the source, but with Caspar talking his ear off, he couldn’t—

“Hubert, what—oh, shit!”

Pain exploded in the back of Hubert’s head, and then he knew nothing but the blissful cold and dark.

~o~

Hubert bolted upright, gasping, “Where is Her Majesty?”

The world spun in a haze of white and grey, and spots danced tauntingly across his vision that he could not shoo away by blinking. He became aware of something soft at his back, and a distinctly clean yet chemical smell burning his nostrils. His mind was muddled, and it hurt to think.

Gradually, the fog dissipated, and the shapes before him solidified into a bed. A cabinet. A chair.

And Linhardt.

Who regarded him with his signature mix of judgment and nonchalance. “Working, in her office,” he said, with a tone that suggested Hubert was a fool for insinuating anything else. “And no, you can’t join her yet. Don’t make this more bothersome than it has to be.”

Hubert silently took stock of himself and his surroundings. He was in the infirmary at Garreg Mach, and he could feel the gauze and bandage wrapped around his head, which ached with a dull throb. He checked his extremities: still functional. A few experimental breaths and twists proved the rest of him operating as normal too.

A memory filtered in. “Caspar’s fault,” he muttered.

Linhardt rolled his eyes. “Quite frankly, I don’t care whose fault it was. The way he told it, an enemy took you by surprise and managed one hit before Caspar beat him down.”

Refuting that would be a waste, so Hubert didn’t bother. He’d have words with Caspar later regardless. There were more important matters at hand. “What of the rest of the battle?”

Infuriatingly, he received a shrug and a, “Fine.”

“Linhardt,” Hubert began in warning, “explain.”

Linhardt sighed with what seemed to be his entire being. “We won the fight. Nothing special. We lost Ladislava and Randolph, though,” he added, as an afterthought. “Caspar was a little upset about that.”

Hubert harrumphed. Randolph’s agitated behavior had foretold his failure, but Ladislava was an unexpected casualty. He would have to discuss replacements with Edelgard.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two days. You’re lucky; I’ve had to spend these two days working.”

“Well, do a little more work and clear me to leave so I can do mine.”

Linhardt threw his hands in the air in surrender. “Fine, fine. Let me take a look at your eyes.”

After a round of grueling tests, Linhardt ultimately pronounced Hubert fit to depart. Whether it was because Hubert was sufficiently recovered or because Hubert would have made his job miserable by mandated bedrest, he did not know nor care. As soon as the verdict was passed, Hubert extended a curt thank you and warped straight out of the room and into his office.

Everything was as he’d left it two days ago, from the placement of tomes and notebooks to the orientation of his chair. The only difference was that his stack of reports had grown significantly taller. There was only so much his aides could do in his stead, given their marginal authority in most of his responsibilities. His pile of completed reports from the other day had since between retrieved, at least.

He rounded the desk and flipped through some of the pages. Someone had arranged them for him in chronological order of receipt. Good. He’d get a strong cup of coffee brewing, cross a few items off the list while he drank, then visit Edelgard’s office and—

His eyes caught on the mangled wooden expanse of his workspace.

His heart lurched so violently that all his breath was momentarily stolen, and a storm of dread fiercer than anything he’d ever wrought threatened to send him to his knees. Agony laced through his chest, a thousand needles puncturing his lungs and shredding them to bits.

The center of his desk was clear.

Lord Arundel’s requisition was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this update for two weeks because I didn't want to post it while my US friends (and others) were going through so much election stress, because uh, this one's the heaviest chapter yet. Had to add a new tag for the fic and I've got a list of CWs in the next paragraph. I'll describe them in more detail in the end notes for those who may want or need them prior to reading. If you'd rather go in blind, feel free to skip the rest of this note. 
> 
> CWs: torture involving experimentation, body horror, and blood (no gore); panic attack/mental breakdown.

This was not happening.

It couldn’t have been taken; it wasn’t on the pile. Hubert’s aides were trusted for a reason: apart from having been painstakingly and meticulously vetted, they obeyed his orders down to every miniscule detail. It didn’t matter if there were signed documents in the middle of the desk. If they weren’t on the pile, they were outside the aides’ purview. It was simple. It should have been simple.

Where the fuck was the requisition?

Hubert rifled through the papers still here, but none of them bore signatures yet. Useless. His movements grew in urgency as the core of him numbed over with cold.

Lord Arundel couldn’t have it. The consequences were too dangerous to fathom.

He jolted upright when a knock rapped on his office door.

“Who’s there?” he snapped. He suddenly was acutely aware that he was still wearing the loose set of plainclothes that he had been outfitted with in the infirmary, and the bandage was still wrapped around his head, pulling his bangs away from his eye.

“Sir.” Ashlen’s voice. “I came to inform you of recent developments during your absence.”

Her tone was careful. It belittled the seriousness of the issue for any unwelcome ears, but Hubert knew.

“Enter.”

He slashed a silence spell through the air the moment she’d closed the door behind her.

“I came as soon as you were reported to have left the infirmary, sir,” she said, before Hubert had even granted her permission to speak further. He bristled, but he needed to hear this, and she’d known he would. “There’s been a situation. If you will permit me my judgment on the best course of action, I’ll withhold certain information for now until a more appropriate time to discuss it.”

He clenched his jaw. “I’ll allow it.”

“Lord Arundel’s henchmen are transporting the prisoner to their laboratory as we speak.”

His chest constricted. It hurt to breathe.

“He has your signature, sir,” Ashlen continued. “His authority cannot be disputed here.”

Her words might as well have been a rusted dagger carving into his guts, digging them out to exhibit for all of Fódlan to point and laugh at. _The Imperial spymaster has been eviscerated by his own folly_. _Unfit to love, unfit to serve_.

“Is that all?” His voice came out as a rasp.

“It is for now if you wish to speak with him and bear witness.”

Hubert exhaled through gritted teeth. Ashlen downplayed like the finest professionals in her field, but she saw through him perfectly. If she wasn’t his chosen second, through all that training and loyalty earned, he might have even been terrified of her. Instead, he just felt hot shame.

“We’ll talk later,” he settled for.

“Yes, sir. I will resume collecting data for your case in the meantime.”

She was already researching the cause of the problem, as well as a potential resolution. It should have boded well, but the prospect of respite was something out of a fever dream. The damage was done, and erasing it would be a monumental task for his forces, if not impossible. For how could they impede the Agarthans’ technological advances if they did not understand them, if they could not even determine the location of their base?

And if Ferdinand—if he were to be subjected to their atrocities like a pig to the slaughter—

The door clicked shut behind her as Ashlen departed. Hubert clawed at the bandages with one hand until they drifted to the floor, while he rummaged through his cabinet for a change of clothes. Once he deemed himself presentable, he fled the office and marched for the Agarthan laboratory.

It was stationed deep in the dungeons, branched off from the path to Abyss and separate from Hubert’s territory. Hubert had charted the entire underground back in their Academy days; Edelgard had requested it of him the instant they’d learned of Flayn’s kidnapping. The Church had expunged most of it back then, but one room had eluded their grasp: the room containing the machine.

There was no other name for it. Apparatus, perhaps, but the Agarthans had never disclosed any sort of appellation, even in the correspondences uncovered by Hubert’s spies. There were no specifics past the fact that this was where prime sampling was conducted.

The machine, though—

Hubert’s footsteps hastened, caught themselves, slowed again. He could not afford to show weakness here. He could not afford to miss what was to come.

“Ah, Hubert. You’re just in time.”

Striding past the throng of Agarthans in the room, Hubert approached the clear panel that connected the viewing chamber with the sampling lab. The air was stale and cold. Sconces lined the walls, but the light glinted strangely, distorted in ways that Hubert couldn’t place.

Lord Arundel stood on the other side of the window nearest to Hubert, sporting a lab coat and gloves similar to those of the other Agarthans surrounding the operating table. The vents allowed sound to carry between the two rooms.

Hubert aimed for a toothy smile; it was an ugly thing, and therefore safe to employ. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said.

It was too honest. A steady thrum of nausea rooted in his stomach.

Thankfully, Lord Arundel latched onto his intended meaning. His eyes gleamed with triumph, and Hubert bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“We’ve sampled Cethleann in the past, but Cichol had evaded us for a long time,” Lord Arundel said as he turned and paced towards the table. “Alliances, and suchlike. But we have no such barriers now. I am very pleased you’ve finally seen to reason.”

He murmured an order, and the Agarthans slunk backwards into the shadows, leaving Ferdinand’s body on full display.

Hubert held himself painfully, excruciatingly still.

The table was set lengthwise facing the window. Ferdinand had been stripped down to his smallclothes and bound to the table on his back via tight leather straps over his chest, wrists, and ankles. His ears were plugged, but they’d left his mouth and eyes unobstructed. A metal cage of sorts trapped his head and neck in place so that he was forced to stare at the ceiling. Bright, fiery strands of hair spilled through the cracks, over the edge behind and beside him, light clinging at odd angles.

And he was covered in tubes.

Tiny needles poked into the skin of his neck, his chest, his arms, his thighs. They were attached to transparent tubing that twisted together over the far side, converging into the tangled depths of the machine.

Even this close, Hubert still could not gauge how it functioned. It somehow succeeded in siphoning both blood and the essence of a crest’s energy—material and metaphysical—through those tubes, and being subjected to such a treatment was an indisputably unbearable experience. Equally so was the process of that same machine implanting such blood and energy into a new host.

Edelgard’s screams were seared into his memory for all eternity.

To have that _thing_ flaunted before him, taunting him with what he could never attain—to stand in stoicism as the monsters bared their talons and sunk them into sacred flesh, an echo, a reminder, of his despicable frailty—

Lord Arundel stroked one long, gloved finger across Ferdinand’s jaw, and Ferdinand flinched with his entire body.

“Thank you for such a beautiful specimen.”

Hubert tasted blood.

Lord Arundel swept aside to drum his fingers across a lever protruding from the machine. “I hope you thoroughly enjoy this just as much as I will.” He pulled the lever, and the machine creaked and wheezed into life.

Slowly, the tubing near the center of the mechanism bulged, the motion trailing outwards, towards where they were linked to Ferdinand’s body. There was a sickening sucking noise, almost like a siren wail, and blood began to trickle into the tubes.

And Ferdinand began to scream.

It was a ragged, horrible thing. His body convulsed with ruthless tremors, his toes stretching out, his hands and feet lifting in fruitless resistance.

Every point of contact pulsed with light, the same glow that appeared every time Ferdinand’s crest activated. Except this was no mere surge of power on the battlefield. This was a constant suction, draining from him and pumping through those awful tubes as his lifeblood was stolen from him.

And Hubert could only watch. Could only choke in silence on the rise of bile in his throat, mingling with the tang of copper on his tongue. Could only strain with every inch, with every muscle under lock to keep still, with Lord Arundel’s judging eyes and expectant, wicked sneer directed exclusively his way.

Deep down, something inside Hubert shattered.

Ferdinand’s anguished howls reverberated against the walls as his back arched. Hubert’s mind frayed at the edges. Every fiber of his being shrieked at him to bolt, but a small part of him insisted, absurdly, that he owed Ferdinand this much.

The cage obscured most of Ferdinand’s periphery. He would never know Hubert was there.

Despite his uncanny ability to always see through Hubert’s facades, Ferdinand would never see this: Hubert, holding himself more rigid than a corpse, longing for the sweet mercy of death to spare him from this, another tally to his most desolate failures.

This was nothing but the product of a petty conflict, an impulse for revenge—was it even deserved? How could he have thought, even for a fraction of a second, that this would have been worth anything? A phantom hysterical giggle escaped when he realized that the last thing he’d said to Ferdinand was that he’d wish for his execution instead of this.

It was only fitting, then, that this would forever haunt Hubert’s nightmares.

His vision had blurred by the time Lord Arundel cranked the lever back into its idle position. Ferdinand’s voice had gone hoarse, but he continued to cry through the aftershocks. He shivered and groaned as the table suddenly swarmed with Agarthans to disconnect the tubes.

Lord Arundel’s gaze was still upon him. Hubert’s brain roared at him to act.

He managed a curt nod, a completely errant curl of his lips. “Thank you,” he said.

“I trust the demonstration was…instructive.”

It would have taken the perfect strike. Even then, Hubert would not have been capable of escaping with his life.

This game, he’d lost.

He answered, “That it was.”

His own personal dismissal.

Hubert’s feet dragged like lead. It took every ounce of his strength to raise them, to set one in front of the other.

Everything hurt: his chest, his head. It felt like he could split in two.

He was not sure how he reached his bedroom. He had no recollection of the route, no notion as to whether or not he’d warped there.

He rode out the rest of his panic attack in miserable solitude.

~o~

When Hubert returned to himself, his first thought was of Edelgard.

His second was of Ferdinand.

Her Majesty had to know. Hubert could never in good conscience conceal a mistake of this magnitude, not when its potential impact could shift the tide of this war. And if her opinion of him was tarnished beyond repair, then so be it.

Ferdinand would have been brought back to his cell. He would have—

Hubert fervently vowed that he would inform Edelgard in due time, he would labor tirelessly until he found a way to keep Lord Arundel’s filthy paws at bay. Now, though, as his mind assaulted him with images of that beautiful figure, broken and prone on the ground, flaming hair askew—

This wasn’t rational. But he had to be there, had to see if…

He raced towards the dungeons, and frantically tried to convince himself Edelgard would absolve him of this vice.

Usually, he would pride himself on being right, especially when it came to Ferdinand. This time—

He gasped audibly; he couldn’t help himself. Illuminated into stark relief by Hubert’s magic, Ferdinand lay crumpled on his side with his back to the wall, bereft of proper clothing, riddled with goosebumps where his skin met the cold stone floor, bruises littering his body where the needles had pierced it. Through the thin veil of hair covering his face, his eyes were closed.

But from the sound and light of Hubert’s intrusion, Ferdinand stirred. His eyelids fluttered and opened. Pale-faced and gaunt, he looked at Hubert with eyes so vacant, Hubert’s blood curdled.

“Are you happy now?”

“No, I.” Hubert swallowed thickly past the shock of that dull, despondent voice and all it implied. “I needed to…” He staggered forwards, grabbing for the bars, and was inside the cell in a flash. There was a blanket in a heap in the far corner. He could…

“Do not help me.” Ferdinand’s demand cut through the haze of Hubert’s mechanical motions. “I am not so weakened that I cannot sit of my own accord.” Arms trembling, he pushed himself upright. As if to prove to Hubert he could. As if Hubert required proof of his strength now, of all times.

Hubert’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground. The corners of his eyes burned.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Those things I said to you—I never meant for them to happen.”

Ferdinand stared at him, defeated and disbelieving, and would that Hubert’s heart could burst from his ribcage for Ferdinand to wring between his fingers as demonstration of his ardor.

“He can’t have you.” It emerged as a guttural whimper as the flood of emotion poured through, so vicious in its nature he thought he might combust from it. “He won’t. I need you to—I won’t let him take you again, I swear it. I’ll do anything, Ferdinand, please.”

“Are you begging?”

An inflection, a note finally differing from the chord of sullen melancholy.

“I—”

“For what?”

Hubert squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Hurt me,” he whispered. “Use me. All that I am, whatever you wish…I am at your disposal.”

Ferdinand was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You don’t want that.”

“It does not matter what I want.”

 _Unfit to love, unfit to serve_. His punishment might as well be this.

“And what makes you think I do?”

 _You’ve already done it once before_.

Except that hadn’t been enough, had it? It hadn’t stopped him from—

Ferdinand said, “On your back.”

Hubert was lying down before he’d even registered the command. The chill of the stone beneath him seeped through the layers of his clothing, and he quivered with anticipation and dread alike.

He craned his neck to look over to Ferdinand, but Ferdinand said, “Do not move. Eyes up.”

Hubert inhaled sharply and lurched back into place. There was a crack in the ceiling. A pebble plummeted next to his face, puffing up dust along its path.

He heard a shuffling noise. The drive to peek warred with his desire to comply. No, he had to pretend he was trapped—

Just like Ferdinand was in Lord Arundel’s lab.

He shuddered wildly as understanding cleaved through him like a dark spike. Something in his nerves ignited, laced with brutal exhilaration.

Then he heard Ferdinand panting.

A shadow fell over Hubert as Ferdinand crawled over him, propping himself up on one hand and both knees, his other hand fisted inside his smallclothes. Radiant hair cascaded in waves around him, hiding his face.

A knee pressed against Hubert’s crotch, the sole point of contact between them, no warmth, no heavy weight draped over him like a blanket—

“Ferdinand,” he croaked.

The knee rubbed against him, and Hubert hissed.

“You,” Ferdinand gasped, his strokes growing rougher and faster, “don’t have the slightest clue what I want.”

Ferdinand stilled with a muffled groan. Hubert felt a spurt of something hot hit his chin.

He chanced a glance downwards, and found Ferdinand’s cock tugged free of his smalls, and his spend splattered across Hubert’s chest.

Hubert’s groin throbbed in tune with the thundering pulse in his ears, and he thought dimly, _Oh_.

Then Ferdinand lowered himself and licked a wet stripe along Hubert’s length through his clothes, and Hubert very nearly moaned unabashedly.

Deft fingers came to trace the outline of Hubert’s cock, down to his balls, making his toes squirm. When Ferdinand’s lips enclosed over his head, it was all Hubert could do to refrain from reaching out.

Ferdinand’s tongue swirled along the tip, and then he sucked, sending a dizzying swell of arousal coursing through Hubert, so powerful he almost came then and there. He was so close already and Ferdinand hadn’t even undressed him yet, and at this rate he wouldn’t last until he did. Unless—

Hubert was going to come in his pants, and his body spasmed with the juddering realization that this was Ferdinand’s plan all along, to spoil and defile him, to leave naught but a ruin in his wake. One broken husk to match another.

And there was nothing Hubert could do to stop it.

It only made him want it more.

He was struck, then, with the startling, senseless instinct to pray for forgiveness.

The overwhelming heat in his gut coiled tighter and tighter as Ferdinand mercilessly worked him through the fabric, and Hubert’s mouth dropped open as his body seized. Helpless and used, his breath hitched as the pressure mounted and he hurtled towards the perilous edge, careening into penance and destruction alike—

Then Ferdinand pulled off.

A desperate sound tore through Hubert’s throat, his hips thrusting reflexively to chase Ferdinand’s mouth, but he had positioned himself out of range.

Hubert was trembling from head to toe. “W-What,” he choked out, but no further words would form. That was deliberate. It had to be. And yet, that Ferdinand could—that he remembered the cues, that he remembered _him_ —

Ferdinand’s face shuttered, and he turned his gaze to the side, to the dusty, dirtied cell floor. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low, graveled, quietly furious:

“Get. Out.”

And in his state of total agony and debauchery—achingly, _humiliatingly_ hard—Hubert could only obey. Shaking with devastating need, his entire front a sticky mess, he warped away.

The moment the world coalesced back in his chambers, he wasted no time undressing, just stumbled and flung himself onto the bed. Reached through his sullied clothes and into his pants, and wrapped a hand around his cock, jerking violent and tortured and shamed.

He buried his face into the pillow and screamed until he sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details on the CWs: Ferdinand is tortured by TWSITD. This involves them strapping him to a table and depriving him of some of his senses (limiting his vision, plugging his ears) and siphoning the power of his crest through his blood via a machine of sorts. Hubert watches and has a mounting panic attack throughout the entire thing. 
> 
> Fun fact: I imagine the machine to be kind of like the one in The Princess Bride. 
> 
> EDIT: I wrote a Ferdinand POV redux of the torture scene! Check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785941).
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


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